Clean Slate

Chapter 44

"Nice dog," Earl said, by way of greeting.

Cookie growled again. "Easy, girl," the woman said. She stopped, leaving the dog between her and Earl. "Who are you?" she asked, tone inquisitive and not in the least unfriendly.

"Friend of Mac's," Earl said. "I've been, uh. . .I've been meaning to stop by out here, check out his place."

"He expecting you?"

"Probably not," Earl said casually.

"So you're uninvited."

"I wouldn't say that."

She ran her eyes over him. "My guess would be, you're from the city."

"I'm with the Bureau of the Bailiff," Earl said. "County of St. Marys."

"Do tell," the woman said, tone slightly acerbic now. "Last time I checked, the southernmost point of the ‘county of St.. Marys' is in the middle of the Sabbath River. Forty-odd miles north of here."

"Hey," Earl said, "This isn't official. I'm just stopping by, is all."

"Just stopping by," she echoed.

The dog growled.

Well, Earl thought, irritated but not showing it, clearly this errand is blown. And just then the thought came to him – for him, a rare second-guess: what in the world did I think I was doing? Come banging around, strange face in a strange car, out here, where there's lots of eyes and close personal ties – of course he'd attract this sort of attention. The trip now seemed to him unplanned, impulsive, reactive, as if, instead of controlling events, which for decades had been his forte, he was now being driven by them. Earl pushed all that away. "If you'll control your big mean bloodthirsty attack dog there," he suggested mildly, "I'll just go back to my car and take my leave."

"Cookie won't mind."

Earl nodded and turned to go. As he did so the woman turned, too, and he saw, just fleetingly, the brass butts of buckshot cartridges in the broken breech of the shotgun. Walking across the lawn in the direction of his car out by the road, Earl wondered idly if the woman was capable of closing the weapon, leveling, and firing at him before he could use the .25 automatic holstered under his pants cuff to give her a third eye. He doubted it, but then, you never really knew what a woman was capable of. Look at Ruth.

Getting into his car, he reflected that the woman would, no doubt, get word to McGladrey of his visit. He decided that this was in fact a good thing. Let him know there were men with purpose working his backfield. That ought to take him out of his game.

---

Friday had been a cooler day in St. Marys, and the oncoming evening promised good, open-window sleeping weather. Mac sat on the sofa in Libby's living room, exiled there by her order, as she bustled about the kitchen putting together the promised gourmet dinner. He felt good. The work week had wound up well. The weekend promised to be quiet, with good, hard-exertion chores to do out at the farm. He and Libby had made love upon arriving, and Mac was in that state of post-coital peace, about as unwound as possible for a man like him during days like these. Of course he had questions on his mind, thoughts that could, if he allowed them, drive away the rare serenity. Diana Privette? No response. Jessica Miller? Dead silence. So the effort to put paid to Earl Bucaro remained in a state of stall. Extremely annoying.

Almost as annoying as the music Libby was playing full blast. It was a "best of Elton John" CD, which was, to Mac, sort syrupy squishy stuff, the Mister Glitter appeal of it all pretty much lost on him. But that was all right. She played her things, and he played his. He resolved to let nothing, but nothing, mess up this evening –

A sharp rapping came from the screen door. From where he sat, Mac could not see who was outside. He got to his feet. Libby called, "Oh, yeah. Get that, hon?"

"Sure." Mac went to the door. There on the concrete stoop he saw a thirty-something man wearing business casual khaki-and-polo and an air of impatience, with two young kids. He was looking at Mac through dainty wire glasses with eyes that seemed for some reason less than impressed. Mac notched the door. "Can I help you?"

One of the kids, the boy, pulled the door open and the two youngsters hurtled inside, right past Mac without a by-your-leave. The man did not react. "Libby's here, I take it?" he asked.

Behind him, Mac heard the kids yelling, "Mom! Mom!" His mouth went dry. Knowing he was staring, and trying to hide it, he asked the man, "Who are you?"

The man answered, completely matter-of-fact: "Me? I'm the asshole."

"Sorry?"

"I'm sure she's mentioned me."

The clamor of the kids, the din of the music, the disjointed disbelieving thoughts – Mac just said, "Not really, no, sir."

"Yeah, well," the man said dismissively, "must be you're just a sleepover male."

"Beg pardon?"

"She's like a doorknob. Everybody gets a turn." The man's expression was weary, just this side of beaten, an expression Mac knew he himself sometimes wore. "Tell Libby I'll be back for the kids Sunday night six sharp." Turning, he trotted away down the sidewalk, keys jingling.

Mac eased the door shut and turned. Libby was at the opening to the kitchen, barefoot in blue running shorts and a white teeshirt that said YOU'VE BEEN A BAD BOY. NOW GO TO MY ROOM. She was giving the girl, a smaller version of herself down to the flaming red hair, a kind of hugging giggling dance. The boy, who was younger – probably seven or so – had turned on the large TV and was sitting on the floor in front of it, working the remote. Neither child had so much as looked at Mac, and as far as Libby was concerned he'd might as well have vanished. He felt dry-mouthed and a little short of breath, just standing there watching as the Elton John music clashed with the din from the TV.

Finally he stepped toward Libby, hands jammed in pockets. "So these are your kids?"

She was beaming, holding the girl's hands, still dancing. "Oh yes. This is Maggie, and that's Josh. Say hi to my friend Mac, kids."

"Hi," they said dutifully.

"I didn't know you had children," Mac said.

Libby let go of her daughter and, bending, gave her a little pat. "Go get your coloring books," she said, then straightened and looked at Mac, his comment registering in her gray eyes. "Sure, we talked about it."

"Reckon not."

"Come on. I'm positive I told you."

"Must have been some other boyfriend."

"Oh, don't be silly. I'm a one-man girl. Come on! Sit down! Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes. Get you a beer?"

Just then that would have gone down like a handful of nails. "No thanks," Mac murmured, and went back to the sofa and sat. From the blur of his thoughts came the notion that he did not in fact really know Libby, and had never really felt at home here – and now it seemed clear he was just an intruder. He honestly did not know what to do. The little boy came over to him. He had Libby's gray eyes, but shortish black hair and a large boned sturdy build. He seemed sweet, but, like Libby, had mischief in his gait. He was holding out the remote. "Can you get Sci-Fi channel for me?" he asked.

"I'll try," Mac said faintly. Working the remote, he got to the satellite guide screen and from there to the Sci-Fi channel. The boy – Josh was his name, Mac had to remind himself – watched, and then sat on the floor against the sofa, just inches from Mac's right ankle. He's just about Nicholas's age, Mac thought. Or the age he would be if –

Kind of built like him, too.

Josh's face – it was so sharp and clear and distinct, so alive – whereas Nicholas's face –

And out of nowhere Mac started to hear the words of the Elton John song that was playing, a soft slow ballad –

He could not bring himself to look at Josh. Instead he was casting about in his mind with increasing desperation, trying to recreate the memory of Nicholas's face with the clarity it had once had. What's happened to me this past week? he wondered. Consumed by the Fant case and by Bucaro, and by the joys of the farm and the challenges of his work, and by the pleasurable interaction with colleagues and friends – and most of all by the dalliance with Libby – all that, he realized, had crowded his son out. He felt heartsick. Forced to endure Nicholas's permanent physical absence, Mac had for these past many months clung for dear life to his little boy's spirit, nursing it like a flame, making it a daily and often hourly reality. Until this past week, he now realized; lured by the distractions and temptations and appetites of daily life, Mac felt he'd let his son down yet again: turned his back on Nicholas, leaving him truly alone.

And now, abruptly, waved in his face in what seemed in that moment like the cruelest of taunts, here were these other children. Someone else's children. Probably nice. Certainly innocent. Bursting with life. But not his kid. Not his.

Abruptly Mac got to his feet. Started for the door, then turned back and bent to Josh and said, in as steady a tone as he could manage, "This isn't your fault, buddy." Straightening, he called toward the kitchen: "Gotta go."

He heard her as he went through the front door. "Mac? Where are you going?"

Across the lawn he went, on unreliable legs, like a drunk pretending to be sober. Not running, not exactly walking either, a rapid horizontal plunge, barely able to see through eyes that stung.

"Mac! What's wrong?" came the call.

Behind the wheel, he fumbled the door shut and the keys into the ignition and fired up the big V-8 and burned rubber pushing off from the curb, nearly sideswiping a parked car. He remembered Scott telling him he'd know he'd achieved growth when he became able to cry openly in front of others. Today was not the day. Tomorrow wasn't looking good either. He wasn't even out of the subdivision when his mobile phone rang. Without regard he tossed it like an unclean thing over his shoulder into the cargo bay and pointed the Suburban south, toward the river.

---

---

The distant ringing of the phone prompted Mac to open first one eye, then the other. Gray light filmed his bedroom walls. At first it seemed early, then he knew it was not. The inside of his mouth was gluey, and a sharp pinprick headache probed at his left temple. He hadn't really had that much to drink. Just enough to numb out. The recollection was dispiriting. He'd resolutely resisted that therapy. But last night he'd caved in to the easy fix, and this morning he'd pay for it.

Slowly he uprighted himself on the bed, watched the world give a good hard wobble, and then reached out for the phone. "Yeah."

"Mac, hi," came the female voice, chipper, unfamiliar. "It's Abigail. Good morning."

"Abigail," he mumbled. "What's wrong."

"I'm fine. But you don't sound so hot."

"Time is it."

"Eight thirty."

"Day is it."

"Um. . .I'll play your silly game. Saturday?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, "yeah."

"I'm sorry," she rushed, "I thought you'd be up by now. I'll call back later."

"No no, that's fine." Mac straightened and stretched, and actually started to feel alive. "Forgive me. Rough night. What can I do you for."

"Thought you should know. I figured out Cheppy."

"No shit."

"Yes, you won't believe it. And I found her."

"No shit?"

"I have an address, in my hot little hand."

"No shit!"

"Thought maybe," she said slyly, "we could head over there and chat with her."

Mac's heart hammered, and not just from the hangover. "You know the Suspension Bridge? North side, commuter lot by the rail yards?"

"I can find it."

"Meet you there in an hour."

---

On this deeply overcast day the Sabbath River was navy gray as Mac motored over the steel-deck Suspension Bridge. Saturday traffic was light, especially this early, and the gravel commuter lot had but one car in it: a white Pontiac Sunfire, with Abigail Heartwell leaning against the hood like an ornament. She wore a sleeveless teeshirt with wide horizontal stripes in myriad colors, over newer looking jeans that just belled toward the bottom over white running shoes. Swinging the Suburban around to a halt, Mac leaned over and threw the passenger door open as Abigail lightly hopped aboard. "Morning again," she said, strapping herself in. "Feeling better?"

"Got my heart started," Mac answered, handing her a go-coffee. "Where to?"

"North end. Fairfax Hills." She opened her coffee, sipped. "Mmm. Good." Her brown hair was loose today, casually combed back over her shoulders, and had, Mac noticed, the faintest blond highlights added to it. She was more made up than he'd have expected for a Saturday -- pale pink lipstick and a little something around her cornflower blue eyes, and she wore stick earrings with stones that exactly matched her eye color. Today she had more color, more energy, than she'd had in a while. But there was still that reserve, and in her eyes the somewhat hunted look he'd come to know. "Wait till I tell you about this Cheppy thing," she said as Mac negotiated the Suburban onto the entrance ramp to the Connector.

"Fire away."

"I had a dream!" she said. "This is honest to God true. I woke up in the night, like a shot sat up in bed. And I was thinking about Cheppy but in the dream I was shown the letter ‘T'. And then it came to me. It's pronounced Cheppy but it's spelled altogether differently. Ready for this?"

"Sure."

"T-S-C-H-O-E-P-E."

Mac visualized it. "That's like a Scrabble game fell on the floor."

She laughed. "Must be I'd seen the name before somewhere. So I went down to Fannie Annie --"

"You did? What time was this?"

"I don't know, five or six this morning. And there she was in the system: Kimberly Alice Tschoepe. Two drunk drivings, a driving while suspended – how acrobatic – and an evading and eluding dismissed. Here's the thing," she added, tapping Mac's shoulder. "I matched up dates, and she was with us – and in the work program – same time as Miller and Privette. I mean, there's overlap there."

"Which supports what Miller told us," Mac commented, playing dodge 'em with the occasional car on the deserted freeway.

"Right."

"So," Mac mused.

"If we can find her," Abigail began.

"And she's willing to see us."

"And she was in fact a victim."

"And she's ready to talk."

"And she's brave enough to go public."

"Then," Mac said –

"We kick Bucaro's ass," Abigail said grimly.