Clean Slate

Chapter 27

Mac was just pouring his first Saturday morning coffee when the house line rang. "Hi, it's Bren," came her cheery voice. "Got a situation."

"Shoot."

"Wilt's up in Canada pike fishing, and the well pump picked this morning to quit."

"Okay."

"I got it apart, and I fixed the problem – I think. But now I'm drawing a blank on which way the power connector goes back in. It's not idiot-proof. And I can't find the manual. Does it matter which way?"

"Yup," Mac replied. He'd helped Wilt install the thing a couple of years before. Casting his mind back, he visualized the manual, saw the pages, the printing, the illustrations. "You know the little blue doo-dad on the plug? That goes to the left."

"Perfect. Damn, you're handy."

"Yes, ma'am."

---

This time Ruth was on her forearms and knees, her wedding rings glinting on her slender fingers as she gripped the counterpane of the double bed in room 33. Behind her loomed the hulking Earl, thick hair matting his tanned hide but otherwise wearing nothing, on hands and knees, tight against her paler, slighter form, fully engorging her with long hard thrusts that generated a squeaka-squeaka sound from the old worn bed frame. From Ruth's breathing, and deep sounds, and lubrication, Earl could tell she was coming along nicely. As for him, it was more like going through the motions.

Oh, in a physical sense he was enjoying it. For him nothing was better than fucking – any flavor of fucking. And doing Ruth, this sweet-faced citizen and icon of the elite: this was the best of all. Just the other evening Earl had caught a news flash of Ruth – Mrs. Wayne Wildern – bathed in the camera-flashes of the paparazzi, snipping ribbon at the entrance of the newly refurbished Opera House – and he thought: I'm screwing her. Friday evening, on his drive to the Judge's in the capacious Caddy, Wildern had gone off on some rhapsodizing reminiscence – something that happened disturbingly often these days – about how Ruth had patiently tutored him through his last rocky year of law school. And Earl, though he made the right sounds and the perfect attentive expressions, found himself thinking: I'm screwing her, your Honor.

And so he was, yet again, this Sunday morning on the room 33 bed, with his boss's wife warm and damp beneath him, expertly rocking back against the thrusts of his cock. Though all systems were go, his thoughts kept ricocheting, like a ping pong ball, among the looming issues named MEDARDO and CLARISA and WHERE IS SHE.

As for the first, in the three days since their meeting, Earl had fairly quickly determined that it was all the young man's fault. Obviously he was a hot-headed Latino with that whole machismo thing going, foolishly possessive of a round-heeled bimbo to whom he was not even married. Hell, Medardo wasn't even one of the two men who'd fathered her children! And, proving he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer (a choice of phrases that caused the rather unhumorous Earl to smile), he'd dared to take on an experienced law officer with a knife. Earl could not help it if Medardo had failed to consider how strongly the odds had been stacked against him. Ultimately, then, Medardo's death was a predictable accident, a case of self-inflicted stupidity not so distantly related to suicide-by-cop.

Even so, there were aspects to this that gave Earl disquiet. Number One was that Medardo – any Medardo – would even think to pull a stunt like that. In all the years it had never even occurred to Earl that any of his girls, or people affiliated with them, would fight back. It was just always understood that they would not dare. And yet Medardo had. At least, in his own pathetic way, and like that bearded tree-hugger at the chicken joint, he'd tried to.

Number Two on the disquiet list was the official investigation. From what Earl could discern, by quiet inquiries (he did not dare expose himself by being too forward), the Department of Sheriff detectives were calling it a homicide by person or persons unknown. They had few leads and no suspects. As far as Earl could tell, the coppers had not yet even figured out that Medardo had shared the place with Clarisa Navacarrada.

Which was, for Earl, the ultimate issue. Where was Clarisa? This mattered because she was, in some sense, a threat to him – though not much of one. Earl knew that his colleagues in the law enforcement community would never credit unsupported, hysterical claims of a low-life slut like her. Her whereabouts also mattered because – and Earl could not help visualizing this as he quickened the pace of his plunging of Ruth – he wanted Clarisa. He wanted her more than ever.

Then – unrelated, at least seemingly so – there was Libby Lewis, the Blade reporter bimbette. She was still leaving him messages, every other day, wanting to question him about the hooker madam papers. Earl was starting to think he might have to take measures with Lewis –

Abruptly, as if sensing the wandering of Earl's thoughts, Ruth grabbed Earl's right arm and pulled it forward, under her neck. "Squeeze me," she gasped, centering her throat on the hard bone of his forearm. "Squeeze me hard." Earl applied pressure to her neck, then a little more. "Keep going," she said faintly. "Now! Hard!"

Earl applied what amounted to a strangle-hold on his lover, curling his clenched fist around and pulling back on her neck hard as he resumed his thrusts. Ruth's hips were no longer reacting, and she was struggling against his arm-grip, with just the faintest of choking sounds, but Earl held on relentlessly, driving her till, after a half dozen deep thrusts, he came, so hard he went vacant, coming back what seemed like hours later, slumped over Ruth. She was damp, warm, and at first inert, but then Earl, still impaled in her, felt her sharp internal aftershock. She murmured, turned her head, coughed, and said hoarsely: "Oh God. Oh God, that was good."

Earl eased himself off her, noticing that her pale back skin had long thin welts from the pressure of his hairy hide. "Oh yeah, baby," he replied, sounding hoarse despite himself.

"Just next time," she said, rolling up to a seated position, "do it harder. And hold it longer."

Her serious tone jolted him. Doing his best to sound jocular, he asked, "What if I kill you?" She slipped to her feet, her back to him, and murmured something as she walked around the bed. Earl said, "Say again?"

More distinctly, she said, throwing him a humorless smile as she walked toward the bathroom door: "What makes you think that I'd care?"

---

Quickly finishing his shower, Earl put on his soft Sunday jeans, red polo shirt, rings and heavy gold watch. He slicked his dark hair down to its usual sheen, and examined his smooth tanned face in the mirror. He looked all right. No evidence of damage from the romp. Of course he still had some relics from Thursday night at Clarisa's house. The heel of his right hand was somewhat purplish and swollen, and there was still a reddish streak on his throat where Medardo had grabbed him. Two or three more days and all that would fade away, as would, Earl was sure, all police interest in Medardo's demise.

When he came back out into the room, he was surprised to see Ruth still there, seated on one of the padded wood guest chairs, quietly watching DIY. The most resilient of women, she showed zero effect of their sexual encounter. In fact she looked as demurely aristocratic as ever, her slight form dressed in an ankle length royal purple crepe dress with matching jacket and white pearls, makeup reapplied with perfection. She smiled at him, but her eyes had an appraising expression that he'd come to know. She asked, "You know what I've always wanted to do?"

"What?"

She told him.

Earl maintained his long-practiced composure, but as he sat his bulky form on the end of the bed, running shoes just inches from Ruth's purple pumps, he felt dry-mouthed. How do I calculate my way around this one, he wondered. When she proposed the boar hunt, he'd tried to deter her – and you saw how that had worked out. "Okay," he said, as evenly as he could, "for one thing, now you're talking involving other people."

"A man in your position," she retorted with that maddening calm that indicated she was, and would stay, three steps ahead of him, "would certainly know of some very safe people who could be. . .convinced."

"Maybe." He gestured briefly at the bed. "This isn't enough for you?"

"It's not me I'm concerned about. It's you."

"Me?"

"I'm afraid you'll get bored. And not want to date me any more." Her eyes were intent on him. "It would excite you. I know it would."

Trouble was, she was right. More right than she knew. But he could never concede that, not completely. "I suppose, yeah."

"Well then?"

Here it was, the point of no return. Earl could decline, and face the consequences. For one thing, no more of these lubricious Sunday dates. And, potentially, Earl realized, there could be further fallout. Ruth was, after all, married to Earl's boss. Judge Wildern was as tame as could be, for a decade had eaten out of Earl's hand. Most of the time he seemed brusquely dismissive of Ruth. God – and Debby Brody – knew that the Judge did not confine his sexual activities to his marital bed. But Earl knew that appearances were deceiving. And Ruth had some sides to her that were only now coming into focus. She was, Earl realized, deadly clever and smart. If Earl annoyed her, and she so chose, Ruth could, he feared, use her clout with the second or third most powerful man in St. Marys County to fuck Earl up good.

"Exactly. . .what are you looking for?" he asked.

Nodding slightly, she rose, and gave him some instructions, complete with descriptions and capabilities. Obviously, Earl realized, she had given it a lot of thought. "Make it soon," she said, emphasis in her tone for the first time.

"All right." That's the ticket, Earl, he thought glumly. What a man you are. Just like the dog in the car rear wndow, head bobbing slowly up and down: Yes Ruth, whatever you say, Ruth, at your command. "I have a present for you," he said abruptly.

She smiled, pleasure genuine. "Why, how nice. What is it?"

"Not gonna tell you," he said, gruffly playful. Going into his duffel bag, he came out with a heavy package about the size of a thick hardcover novel, wrapped in silver and blue paper with a red bow. "Here," he said, handing it to her, feeling like a penitent.

Ruth sat down with her knees together, set the package on them, and, with delicate slices and tears of her pristine red nails, disengaged the wrapping paper. The rich tan leather case inside opened with the press of a brass clasp. Inside, nested in black velour, gleamed the stubby handgun. Ruth's sudden breath-intake told Earl all he needed to know. Gently she extracted it from its case. "It's beautiful," she said, and threw Earl a glance. "It's so little!"

"Decent punch, though," he told her. "Thirty-two caliber, semi-automatic, but small enough to carry or hide anywhere."

She stood, letting the box and wrapping paper fall to the floor, and came to Earl, smiling into his eyes. "You're so thoughtful. You remembered our anniversary." He just looked at her. "Three months today since our first date," she said. "Thank you. And thank you also for agreeing to help me with. . .my little party."

She kissed him, prim and sisterly, next to his mouth. Picking up her purse, she slipped the weapon inside, blew Earl another kiss and left the room. In silence he stood there, then sighed, quite amazed at himself.

He was behind the wheel of his red Corvette, just twisting the key, when he remembered the tape. Trotting back inside, he checked to see if it was full. It was.

---

This was the hottest Sunday of the summer so far. And in greater St. Marys, when it was hot, it was really hot. The Sabbath River valley in which St. Marys sprawled was like a cupped palm, surrounded by the seven hills. Certain warm fronts tended to settle there, jamming moist air downward, locking it in place till it became noticeably stagnant. These intervals, known to some as monkey's armpit weather, were hell on people with allergies or with breathing disorders. But no such problems plagued the McGladrey clan. And, since their North Liberty patriarchal home on Buckingham Court was a couple of hundred feet of altitude higher than St. Marys itself, they were spared the worst of the heat.

Even so, when Julie proposed a round of shuffleboard, most of the clan demurred. Nick and Marie were relaxing over wine with Todd and his wife; the teens were escaping to their CD burners; and most of the rest of the family were, in their all-business way, poring over the real estate papers that Mac had distributed. As he followed his sister out the back door, Mac saw Suzanne coming after him, and she caught up with him by the time they reached the court.

As the youngest present, Paul, by tradition, picked the teams for a doubles game. To no one's surprise, he selected Suzanne as his partner, which paired Mac up with Julie. This put Mac and Suzanne side by side at one end of the concrete shuffleboard court that sat at the extreme west end of the McGladrey back yard. It was the longest stretch of time Mac had spent close to his wife since returning from overseas, and it felt odd: familiar and foreign at the same time. Familiar, in that this was the woman he had lived with, slept with, and loved for eleven pretty decent years. She was a bit heavier, and had aged some, but Mac could not help but feel the pull of her zaftig sensuality, dressed as she was in sandals and white canvas shorts and a red stretchy halter top so skimpy that she if she bent over too quickly, she'd fall out of it. The nearness of her, even with the alluring scents of memory, also felt foreign to him. All the assumptions under which he had operated, from the day they had married, were on hold now, and would stay on hold till all the truths had been told.