Clean Slate

Chapter 19

Another Sunday, the same sequence: family meal at the McGladrey manse on Buckingham Court. As Suzanne had often acerbically pointed out from their marriage's earliest days, the entire occasion was an exact echo of all the others. The main course was meat loaf instead of ham, and Paul came solo this time, but otherwise all was identical, including the cast of characters. Suzanne wore black again – a silky sleeveless cinch-dress that flowed along her round lines from a plunging V-neck down to a point just above her pale knees. Her only other attire was the skimpiest pair of high-heel sandals Mac had ever seen, with spaghetti-thin straps winding up her ankles. She got lots of attention as she worked the room, gravitating mostly about Marie. Mac saw Paul giving her the eye, something not lost on Julie either.

"He's such a skank," she whispered to Mac. "Look at him checking her out. He actually came here alone, hoping to get lucky with your wife."

"C'mon," Mac said mildly, "I doubt that."

"You're right," Julie said. "Not even Paul's luck is that bad. How was your week?"

"Getting settled pretty well."

"Are you at Grandpa's for good?"

"Matter of fact, I'm buying Dad out. Next weekend I'll have paperwork for all you guys to see."

"Why show us? I don't get it."

"You know," Mac said. "Just so you see it's all fair and aboveboard."

"You don't need to prove that to me."

"I know."

"I'm fine with it," Julie said. "I'm sure Ross and the girls will be too. Paul will try, and fail, to figure out he's getting screwed. And Todd," she grinned, "may hire Johnnie Cochran."

In the dinner table rotation – for Marie had once again shuffled the place cards – Mac ended up directly across from Suzanne. Paul had managed to land a seat to her left. The table talk ranged the usual topics, with Marie as master of ceremonies. This time, Mac's second family meal after returning, he felt much less obvious and self-conscious. He was becoming part of the woodwork, where, as his dad had pointed out, he preferred to be. Clearly he was less of a target looming in his mother's sights –

Or so he thought.

"Now, Caryn?" Marie called over the din, addressing Ross's wife.

"Yes, Marie?"

"Your professional opinion, please."

"Happy to," Caryn replied, as the cross-talk dimmed.

"What do you think of this?" Marie asked, with a smile Mac found to be dangerous. "Suzanne says Mac isn't having sex because of the Paxil he's taking, for his depression."

Around the table there was a kind of a unison intake of breath, widening of eyes, exchange of quick looks. Nicole tittered. Julie murmured: "Mother!" Mac, who by this time was pretty much impervious to any shock from his mom, looked down at her. Marie's thin edgy face was composed and bemused, but something in her dark eyes seemed a little off, as if even she realized she'd gone a bit too far. The most telling reaction came from his father. Normally a man who remained benignly above his wife's skilled application of tactlessness, this time Nick actually gave Marie a silent pointed glance.

Bonnie said brightly, "Try Cialis. Works great for Lonnie. I'm a happy girl now." Her husband put his face in his hands.

For his part, Mac felt no anger, or even annoyance. He felt only a sense of weary disbelief and, somewhere in the distance, pity for his wife. Suzanne's red lips were an O, her face was beet-red, and her eyes were averted: her caught-in-the-act look, one he'd learned he could take to the bank. He said, "Well, babe, one out of three ain't bad."

---

The next morning found Mac in the best spirits he'd had since returning to St. Marys. As he loped up the wide marble steps to the second floor of Fannie Annie, amid the new-week bustle of co-workers and tired trudge of customers, he thought: I've got a full week under my belt now. My home's figured out. My job's screwed together. My machinery all works. I even got the lawn mowed! That overarching sense of "What now?" that he'd lived in, from the time he first left Suzanne, was easing. He wasn't exactly dug in yet. That would take a lot more time, and the resolution of many more questions. And he'd learned in living all these ache-filled days since March 15 of last year that "this too shall pass." Just as the worst moments of despairing misery were supplanted, in time, by better feelings, so too would this era of good feeling turn out to be transitory. Besides a peaceful life, what he hoped for most was something quite simple: an even keel. He wondered if that would ever be possible. Probably not – not as long as such huge issues stayed unresolved.

But for now, he thought as he pushed through the glass door into the probation department waiting room, I'll let myself feel good, and I'll enjoy it while it lasts. God knows I do my time in the other place. . . .

In the waiting room: no Eddie Fant.

In his office: no messages from Eddie Fant.

Mac sat in the quiet of his office, thinking. In all the time Mac had been Eddie's probation officer – and this was his third tour over five or six years – Eddie had never missed an appointment without at least calling. As of now, Monday morning, it was nearly 72 hours since Eddie's appointment.

He was in the wind.

Or somewhere.

Mac called Janie out front. She assured him there'd been no contact.

The light in the room next door snapped on. Mac heard Abigail getting settled in. She called a cheery greeting through the archway and Mac replied absent-mindedly. Joe Pipestone breezed by and boomed his good-morning. Mac answered with a smile and a salute. Ray Christopher poked his head in the door to say hello. Judge Wildern called, bluff and cheery, to commend Mac on completing his first week back. Mac thanked him and promised to stop by soon, and briefly they discussed an article about Sharpsburg that had appeared in the latest GAR Roll Call. Mac's brain was in in semi-absentia, for he was thinking about Eddie: specifically, what he should do. Aside from nothing, that is. And "nothing" was the most logical option. After all, it was no skin off Mac if Eddie blew his probation. The process for dealing with this was well established. He'd be seven-dayed, then show-caused, and then a bench warrant would be issued. By and by, Eddie would screw up – they always did – and get scooped. Given his record, he'd probably get a jolt in the Stockade or county jail, to remind him that meeting relatively simple probation conditions was not in fact tough. As Eddie's PO, Mac had no duty to rescue him, launch an investigation, or make even the simplest of inquiries. All he had to do was keep the books and await developments.

And besides, Mac had a busy day today.

And besides, Eddie had neither a phone nor much of a fixed address.

And besides, and besides. . . .

You just don't go chasing around St. Marys looking for errant clowns, Mac told himself.

Aw, shit.

Mac called Janie again. "Pull Fant's file for me?"

Pause. "It's been checked out, Mac."

"You're kidding." The file had Mac's handwritten case notes in it; all the information that was not on the computer record. "Who else would want it, other than me?"

"Um. . .it's logged out to Becky at B of B."

That's right, Eddie was in the work program. Must be they needed his file for some reason. "Okay, thanks." Mac rose. He remembered distinctly, because he'd written it down, the location of Eddie's, uh, residence. No problem finding it. If he didn't find him there, maybe there'd be a clue as to where he'd gone. He went to the archway. "I've got an errand," he told Abigail. "If I'm not back for Mendoza at ten, could you take it?"

"Sure," she said. "What's the errand?"

"Bunch of foolishness," he grumbled. "Seeya." As he headed up the hall, he remembered the handgun in his desk drawer. He had not thought of it, not even once, since Clare issued it to him a week ago today. He wondered why the memory of it had picked this instant to float to the surface. A warning? Be prepared? Trouble ahead?

Oh hell no.

This was Eddie Fant. How much trouble could there be?

---

The morning sun was still fairly blinding as Mac motored his Suburban out Fourth Street toward Dogtown. The a.m. commute was about done, as was Morning Edition. As the unctuous KBOR announcer introduced an hour long retrospective on the Barbie doll, Mac snapped off the radio and rode in welcome silence. He was still a bit irked with himself over giving in to this urge to chase all the way out here to hunt down Eddie. The clown would turn up. He always had. So why the chase?

Just an itch. That's what it was. Mac had gotten them all his life. He'd learned long ago that action was the only cure. Most of the time the result was nil, but the itch went away, allowing Mac to get back to his life.

As Fourth Street became – in the magic of St. Marys streets, which randomly changed names without reason or notice – James Jones Boulevard, the four-lane became rougher, and in the extreme distance the ghostly black Axle plant stuck its stacks like blunt daggers into the blue sky. Buildings became smaller and dirtier. Cars melted away and the traffic became mostly trucks. Orange construction signs loomed, warning of detours, increased penalties, and extended delays. What else was new; half of St. Marys County roads, Mac had learned, were under construction, and the other half needed it. Up ahead was the Pike, Wister Bypass, and the vast tangle of MCCO train tracks, snaky-snarled as of laid out by a drunken child. Traffic clogged up. It was lighter from the other way. Between trucks Mac could see the orange barrel detour around the heart of the construction: an enormous underpass to allow James Jones traffic free flow over the confluence of tracks. Someday. Inching forward, the Suburban's big V-8 sucking down gas, Mac kept peeking ahead between passing vehicles. A bread truck, a fuel tanker, a wrecker with a smashed car on its deck, an SUV, more trucks.

"Right where the train tracks cross the Pike," Eddie had said. That's what Mac had written. He could see it in his mind's eye. He was there now. To his right, the red earth lay bare-scraped, rising to a steep bluff. Ahead was the gouge in the ground where the underpass would go, marked by concrete abutments and wood forms and yellow construction vehicles and helmeted men and women working with artful motionlessness at their inscrutable tasks. To the left was a cluster of abandoned flat-roofed commercial buildings: some kind of ancient brick office complex, then a white-tile burger joint with exploded windows; then a burned out gas station.

No cab.

But this had to be the place. It was right where Eddie said it would be. It was the only place it could be; the gas station driveway was the only empty spot right here. But there was no cab, abandoned or otherwise.

Impulsively, Mac punched the gas and flung the Suburban in front of an oncoming car into the gas station driveway. The big SUV bounced on its suspension as Mac braked. The ground here was covered with shattered glass and chunks of metal and chrome. The chipped concrete was scarred with black rubber skid marks. A wood power pole just this side of the gas station was leaning sharply away. Where it met the ground, the concrete was crushed, showing red earth. All fresh.

Something had hit the pole. Very hard.

Mac sat still, thrumming the Suburban wheel with his fingers. His thoughts were in rewind, playing recent pictures, as he stared out at nothing. Yeah. Banging the car into drive, he lunged it out onto the Boulevard, headed back toward town. The Suburban was no race car, but Mac drove it like one, throwing it lane to lane among trucks and cars, and taking at yellow the traffic lights at Military Road and Wisconsin Avenue.

Then, up ahead, he saw the wrecker. It was a red Jerr-Dan, with the big flat steel deck. Atop it was chained the remains of a black-and-white car. Mac squinted at it, advancing on it, trying to make it out, hoping against hope. The car had been smashed in what must have been a horrific collision. But from what was left of the profile, and the distinctive tail lights, Mac could see that his glance at it earlier, as he approached Dogtown, had been correct.

It was an old Checker cab.