Clean Slate

Chapter 41

She swung her face to him and stared. "Without me?"

"I'm a creature of impulse."

"Not hardly!"

"Well, whatever, that's what I did."

"So what happened?"

"He admitted it."

"The rapes?"

"No. Killing Fant."

"Admitted it?"

"Pretty much."

"Get out!"

Mac was nodding. "He shoved it in my face. He wants me to know. It's a game to him: catch me if you can. He knows we don't have the cards. And he's enjoying it."

"So what about the rapes?"

"Oh, that I didn't mention."

"Why? At least we have witnesses –"

"Witness, singular. Of marginal quality. Today."

"That's more than we have on the Fant murder!"

"Which is exactly why I didn't bring it up."

She was shaking her head. "You lost me."

"We'll let him think Fant's his problem," Mac said. "And then, if we can, when the time is right, when we have it chapter-and-verse, whack him from the blind side with the rapes. Like how Lee used Stonewall at Chancellorsville."

That went right by Libby. Gray eyes narrow and thoughtful, she was, Mac felt, filtering what he'd said for something useful to her, and coming up empty. The reddish rays of the setting sun were bathing her face now, and she adjusted her chair a bit. "So we need to bear down on the rapes then."

"Right."

"I did some digging for Cheppy today," she said. "Tried Chappie, Sheppy, all kinds of variations. Nothing."

"I know," Mac said. "We hunted around too."

"What would you think. . .I was just thinking. . .if we can get either Privette or Miller to agree to go public, maybe that'll give the other one the courage to step forward too."

"Possible."

"So let's go back to Miller," she suggested. "Let's really lean on her this time."

"No leaning," Mac said. "Let's give it a couple of days, go chat with her again. Same with Privette. We want them to turn because they want to, not because they're feeling coerced."

"We can always hide their identities," Libby said. "I think my editor would go for that, if we had two different people coming forward at once, corroborating each other independently."

"Nope. Not good enough."

"What do you mean?"

"We need for this to be a slam dunk," Mac said. "So we need them to give affidavits, under oath, and on camera. That'll get the prosecutors's attention."

"That's way too complicated," she argued. "And who needs the prosecutors. Give me a half hour with them, and we'll have a story that'll blow the lid off this town."

"That's fine," Mac answered. "You'll have your story. What I want is Bucaro's head on a pike. We know he did Eddie. Can't prove it, but I just know. If he raped these two women we know about, odds are he raped a lot more. I want him put away. I want him finished once and for all. We're taking no chances. We're going for it all, Libby. Not just a newspaper story."

She was staring at him, and for the first time Mac saw uneasiness. "Down, boy," she breathed. "You're taking all this way too seriously."

"When it comes to people getting hurt, I'm funny like that."

Darkness was growing in purples, grays, and blacks from the deepest woods southward across the grassy meadows and up the gentle slopes toward the house. Libby drank some more wine, and Mac enjoyed a glass of beer so cold that ice chips floated on the foamy surface. With an effort he pushed away the ruminations over Bucaro. He would not rob himself of this night. He wanted to go inside, and get naked with Libby, and tangle long and lovingly in his own bed with her, and fall asleep in her arms. But first they'd have this, out here on the deck. Warm evening breezes caressed them, redolent of the rich soil of the fields and meadows and woods. As near complete darkness came, the sounds of peepers came from the distant woods, above a low and almost subliminal rustling of nocturnal creatures coming to life.

Libby was a silhouette beside Mac. He took her hand, and her grip was fierce. "I have to say," she broke a long silence: "This is creepy, Mac."

"What is?"

"Out here. This whole thing."

"What's creepy about it?"

"This place is so big, and so empty – so wide open. All these acres and all that woods, and all that sky -- and nobody but you here."

"Mm-hm."

"I'd be scared. I'd be terrified living here."

"Why?"

"Because anybody can just. . .walk right up and. . .do whatever."

"Well, I guess that's true, but --"

"Who do you call for help? How long does it take for the coppers to get here?"

"Question never occurred to me."

"You know what else is creepy, is the quiet. Listen!" They paused. Mac could hear woods and meadow creatures, ever so faint, and the whisper of breeze through the tall trees. "It's so dead silent!"

"One of the things I love about it."

"I feel like my ears have been glued shut, like I've gone deaf."

"Eight or nine years ago," Mac said idly, "I was in west Texas, and I had some free time, so I went over to New Mexico to the Carlsbad Caverns. Spent the weekend. The best part wasn't the public caves, the one for tourists. I got to go on a hike with Forest Service guides, down into one of the undeveloped caverns. Tough climb: no ladders, no handholds, no guardrails, no lights except our flashlights."

"Ick!"

"Yeah, I reckon you wouldn't have appreciated the twelve foot layer of million-year-old desiccated bat shit with critter bones sticking out."

She seemed truly horrified. "So what was there to do down there?"

"Well, we went about 900 feet down, and then they sat us down and turned off the flashlights to give us the experience of absolute total darkness and silence. And you know what?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"It was the silence that got to me. I came back to the surface a changed man. Ever since, I've been painfully conscious of all the pointless noise there is in the world. Noise pollution. Aural obscenity."

"My God. Working in downtown St. Marys must drive you nuts."

"I can deal with it," Mac replied, "as long as I have this place to escape to. I --"

"Aaugh!" Libby shrieked, clutching herself, waving her hands frantically in the air around her. "What was that? I heard something! I felt it!"

"Speaking of bats," Mac said calmly.

"You have bats out here?"

"Oh yeah. He swooped me too, just then."

"Aren't those winged rats?"

"Good for insect control."

She got to her feet so violently her chair fell over with a crash. "I'm going in. You must have a TV. Could we watch TV for a while? I've got to go inside now."

On his feet now, Mac took her arm comfortingly. "Sure, babe. Whatever you want."

---

He was looking for Nicholas, in the Montcalm public library. They'd become separated, and Mac had not seen him in ages. Frantically he ran up and down the rows of shelves, calling his son's name. Rounding a corner, he encountered a woman whom he did not know. "Nicholas is over here," she told him, and guided him with a warm hand toward the children's section. "He's performing for the children. He's quite an entertainer." Through an archway they went, and between two high shelves of books toward an open space at the far end. Mac could hear Nicholas singing. His heart rose as he stepped into the open area –

"Mac!" came the voice again, a sharp whisper, and again the pinching shake of his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he rolled over onto his back. He was naked, the sheet half covering him, in the near blackness of his bedroom, the only light the echo of stars and the sliver of moon flying high in the night sky outside the two big windows. "Wake up," Libby whispered, shaking him again.

"What's up?" he mumbled, and glanced toward the bedside clock: 12:18.

"I can't sleep. This is awful. I'm just lying here stark raving wide awake."

"What can I do for you?"

He could make out her shape, seated almost cross-legged on the double bed, and her red hair had an ethereal glow in this light. "Do you have a TV in here? Or a radio?"

"Sorry, no."

"It's just too fucking quiet to sleep," she muttered, swinging her legs off her side of the bed. "I'm going to go read for a while or something."

"I'll get up with you."

"No you won't. Just go back to sleep." He watched her tall form cross the bedroom and slip through the door. From the creaks of various floor boards and other sounds he knew she had gone into the bathroom, then the kitchen, and then the living room, where, presently, he heard the characteristic drone of CNN. He thought at first the sound might keep him awake. It didn't.

---

The RackMasters plant complex was at the corner of Dove and Beeker in an older industrial area of St. Marys's near west side. Originally built as an airplane propellor plant, the core RackMasters facility had been added to over the past 30 years until now it occupied over a million square feet and employed nearly a thousand workers. Earl Bucaro had never been there before -- had not, in fact, ever heard of the place until Undersheriff April told him about it the other night at the North Liberty sheriff substation. Once prised open, April had been more than helpful, giving him not only Mac McGladrey's parents' address, but also the name and work place of McGladrey's wife or ex-wife, April wasn't sure which.

The corporate HR manager was typical of the breed: willing to cooperate in anything just so the proper forms were filled out. In this case all that was needed as for Earl to sign in the guest book and accept a paper copy of the RackMasters environmental protection policy -- for what reason Earl could not fathom, but to the HR person it seemed like a desperately urgent deal. Then she escorted him onto the manufacturing floor, smelling of molten plastic and hot hydraulic fluid and crash-banging in a cacophony of heavy machines stamping out parts. Down a wide center aisle they walked, between busy production cells, basking in the glow of large professionally painted signs screaming exhortations about quality and teamwork. The Quality Assurance Lab was a building-within-the-building about halfway down. The long open room had the brightness of a laboratory. It was cool and quiet except for the buzzing of phones and the murmuring of people working at lab tables or in cubicles.

Suzanne McGladrey, having been alerted by the HR person earlier, was waiting for Earl at a conference table at the far end of the lab. She was a short assemblage of multiple roundnesses, from her face to her breasts to her tummy to her ass. She had green eyes and frown lines and the slightest gap between her two front teeth, and she wore a flowing blue lab smock with the RackMasters logo on one breast and her name embroidered in red on the other. She sat at the table, small hands folded in front of her, staring blankly at Earl as he seated himself across from her.

"You know who I am," Earl started.

Her green eyes flickered. "Doris told me. What's this about?"

The HR person was hovering. Earl shot her a quick dismissive look over his shoulder. "I can take it from here," he said. The HR person receded. Earl looked back at Suzanne. "Part of my job, at the Bureau of the Bailiff," he began, "is to investigate potential personnel problems in the various divisions of the Recorder's Court system."

"Kind of like. . .an internal affairs operation?"

"Something like that," Earl said, sounding condescending and not caring. "When there is questionable behavior among Court House staff, it's my job to get to the bottom of it, and then, depending on what process we follow, recommend to the Chief Judge a course of action."

"This is about Mac, isn't it."

"Mac would be your ex-husband?"

She flinched. "We're just separated, while we work through some things."

"I understand he was away for a year? What was that about, please?"

"Who knows. Mac was always picking up and leaving. Never for a whole year, though. Not till this time."

"Do you know where he went."

"France, he said. Cambodia later." She studied her wedding rings. "It could be he had internet girlfriends over there. A lot of people do that these days. I've had an internet boyfriend for a long time myself."

As if anyone cares, Earl thought. He studied McGladrey. For his purposes, a perfect specimen. Brimful of anger and resentment, and, he sensed, quite choleric on occasion. He did not know Mac McGladrey well. But from what he had seen of the PPO's demeanor, it was hard to picture a man like him married to this woman, loving her, fucking her. Point of fact, it was hard to imagine anyone, even some internet idiot, fucking her, or wanting to.

"Do you have any idea," he asked after a moment, "how much trouble your husband is in? Any idea at all?"