Clean Slate

Chapter 45

Fairfax Hills was a near-in suburb on the northwest side. For generations a working class community of modest boxy homes and the occasional trailer park, it had, with the advent of the MetroTrain – which conveniently enough stopped twice within its borders – become a bedroom community for well heeled commuters to downtown. Commercial and residential developers had targeted the area for a couple of decades now, with mixed success. An attempt at McMansions flopped miserably, but upscale apartments and townhouses did fairly well. Strip malls proliferated along U. S. 32, and Nicholas's favorite video game emporium used to be there. But St. Marys's oldest regional shopping mall – starved of business by the opening of the Sheridan Freeway ten miles west, as well as by the publicity from a sprinkle of shootings on its grounds – was slated to shut down by year's end.

Tschoepe's address led Mac and Abigail to a middle-aged row house development up a side street from a cluster of big-box stores and fast foods and the ubiquitous Liquor Lotto. The red brick building stretched nearly a full block, fronted with identical small porches and entryways, and rising three narrow floors to a black shingle gambrel roof. There were no garages, so people parked their cars at the curb, and Mac had to go more than half a block up the way to find a space. It was nearly ten thirty, and folks were stirring, but as Mac and Abigail passed the doorway of Tschoepe's address, they saw no signs of life.

"You're sure this is it," Mac said, shutting off the engine.

"Yep. Got it two different ways," Abigail said, checking her small note pad. "She moved here a couple years after getting off probation."

"What else do we know about her?"

"Um. . .no evidence she's ever been married. Employment comes back to a drug store merchandising company out of Knoxville. Must be she works the Rite-Aids and Oscos and stuff."

"Those kinds of jobs, you work odd hours," Mac commented. "In which case could be tough to track her down. Let's go knock."

They walked up the sidewalk toward Tschoepe's door. Lean and lithe, Abigail seemed to float alongside Mac, eyes bright. She loves the hunt, he thought. Mac mounted the stairs and rapped the brass knocker on the black steel door. Long pause, whisper of traffic in the distance, a squeal of brakes from somewhere – but no sound from inside. Mac rapped again without further effect. Stepping down to Abigail, he said, "Well."

She stood stock still on the sidewalk, eyes vacant. "I know," she murmured.

"What?"

"I'll go this way, you go that," she said.

"Excuse me?"

She focused. "Let's knock doors a bit," she said. "Ask around."

"We can always come back later," Mac said. "Leave a note, or --"

"No," Abigail said, with an odd stare. "This will work."

Mac was four doors up – having learned, so far, nothing at all helpful about Tschoepe – when he saw Abigail walking down the sidewalk toward him. He met her at the curb. "She's getting married," she told him.

"Well, that's nice, for sure, but --"

"No, I mean now, today."

"Really."

"Lady three doors up, she's a girlfriend of Kim's," Abigail said. "Can't go to the wedding because she works midnights, but she's about to leave for the reception."

"So the wedding's going on right now?"

"Yes, started at 11," Abigail said, glancing at her watch. "Why?"

"You know where it is?"

"St. Aggie's," Abigail said curiously. "What are you thinking."

"That we need to go."

"No. Not to the girl's wedding. Not to talk to her about this."

"The reception," Mac argued. "We'll just breeze in, and wait for an opportune moment, and introduce ourselves – get our foot in the door with her – set up for a serious talk later on."

"Oh, Mac. It's so inappropriate."

Peering into Abigail's eyes, which were cloudy with doubt, he said, "This is important. Every moment we delay is another moment Bucaro stays on the street doing what he does. You want that?" She shook her head. "Then let's go."

---

Back downtown they headed, on a freeway that had become much more congested. Orange barrel stuff, Mac thought sourly; God I'd hate to deal with this full time. Abigail sat relaxed in the captain's chair beside him, in one of her brow-furrowed states. They'd exhausted work topics, and Mac was not about to bring up Garry Overbye again. So he ventured, "About this ice thing?"

She glanced at him. "What?"

"What Libby said. About how you fell through the ice. I never did get the whole story on that."

"It was in all the papers," she murmured.

"Probably while I was away?"

"Oh yeah, of course."

"So could you tell me?"

She looked profoundly self conscious. "It's really not that big a deal."

"I'd like to hear."

She shrugged, shifted. "I was up in Wisconsin, near the Chain O' Lakes, with a gang of friends. Not really my friends, Garry's friends; all our friends were really just his. We were at a lodge, to ice skate and ski. We had a bonfire one afternoon by the river. There was. . .well, that was back when I was doing some drinking. Anyway, we were playing snow frisbee, and I chased a wild one out onto the river. And the ice caved in and down I went."

"Oh my gosh."

"Current sucked me under the ice and pulled me down river. I remember. . .tumbling. First bitter cold and then numb all over." As she talked she examined her long thin fingers. Clearly, Mac thought, this was not easy for her. She was not a person who craved attention. "Bobbed up trying to bust out, but. . . . You know, ice like that, it's not flat and smooth underneath," she commented. "I kept banging against thicker parts sticking down. Got speared by dead branches, smacked by rocks, on the river floor."

"And. . .no air to breathe, of course."

"Right," she said readily. "I held my breath, and then I started to buck and heave, and then it was all over -- I started to inhale water. But it wasn't so bad. I remember thinking, This business of dying, it's not so bad after all."

That gave Mac pause, for in his darker moments he'd played with the same kinds of thoughts. Often he had to force himself not to. "How'd you get out?"

"Well, there was a storm sewer pipe down the river a way. And where it drained into the river, there was an opening in the ice. And I bobbed out there." She shook her head. "I don't remember. I was unconscious by then."

"How long were you under there?"

"Twenty two minutes, is what they figure."

"You should have been dead."

"I know," she said softly. "They said the bitter cold is what saved me."

"I've heard of that."

"With little kids," she nodded. "Far as they know I'm the oldest person ever to survive that way."

"Had to be an awful experience."

"Actually, some of it was lovely." At his glance, she smiled, nodded. "I remember looking up, as the current was pulling me along, and I was numb all over, and I could see through the ice – I could see daylight up there, just faintly, different colors. . .quite something."

"Stayed in the hospital how long?"

"Ten days. First they thawed me out like a piece of steak. Didn't think I'd live, but I did. Then were sure I'd never come to, but I did. Then were positive I'd never recover full brain function, but I did. I had seizures at first, but those went away. I still have these. . .little spells. . .every so often. But mostly I'm all right."

"Good as new?"

"Not exactly. Just different." She gave him a look, as if calculating what to say. "So much changed. I don't like the same foods, I couldn't stand my old job. I read books now, where I never did before, and I go to church? Me? Church?" She laughed nervously. "I don't do reefer any more and I hardly ever drink. I don't eat meat now, either. I was such a steak girl, Mac, and now the thought of biting into some dead carcass. . . . And my whole circle of friends – those people who seemed like friends, they were. . .just so tiresome. And then of course Garry."

"Yeah."

"I'm feeling my way along," she told him. "Step by step I'm figuring out who I'm turning into, what my life is supposed to be now. For the first time I'm truly seeing what's really good for me, and what's not. This job is good for me. Working on this Bucaro problem – it's good for me." She hesitated. "And friends like you – you're good for me, too."

Mac was surprised at how glad that made him feel. Had he ever had a genuine woman friend, without other complications? No. But if there was ever a good time for such a thing, this was it. He gave her a smile and a nod, and she smiled back, and on they rode in companionable silence.

---

The Cathedral of St. Agnes, St. Angela, and All Martyrs, commonly known around town as St. Aggie's, was a single spired granite pile occupying an entire city block just up from the old Armory. Soot stained and intimidating, with copper roofs and trimmings that had corroded to a dull green/brown, and stone shrines bedotting its pristine lawns, the cathedral complex included the church itself plus a school, rectory, library, and fellowship hall. Parking in the area was the usual miserable St. Marys business, and Mac finally managed a wedge job at the curb across the Boulevard from the Pogue's department store a couple of blocks up.

"I can't wait," Abigail said as they walked briskly along, "to see how you're going to handle this."

"Any suggestions?"

"Except to wait? No."

"It's a reception," Mac said easily. "People milling around. Our chance will present itself."

"Sure."

"If they have a dollar dance," Mac said, "I'll just pay the buck and take my turn and chat with Kim as I whirl her around the dance floor."

"This I've got to see."

The wide stone steps of the fellowship hall were dotted with smokers of all genders, dressed up in formal wedding finery. Mac and Abigail went unchallenged through the open double wood doors into the cavernous hall. Its ceiling was arched like a Quonset hut, with big glass chandeliers hanging down by chains, and rows of tables ran the length of the floor to the dais at the far end. Two buffet lines were working, each patronized by two lines of diners. Clearly, the banquet was just getting under way.

Self conscious in their casual clothes, Mac and Abigail stood watching for a bit, scanning the crowd. "Do you see anyone resembling a bride anywhere?" Mac murmured.

"No."

"Let's, um. . .let's split up and ask around."

"You ask around," Abigail said. "I'll wait for you by the door, help with the get-away, throw chairs in the path of pursuers, and so on."

"As you wish." Mac sauntered toward the crowd. He got second looks from several people, but most ignored him. The table on the dais was deserted; no doubt the family and wedding party were in the buffet line somewhere. Still no sign of the bride, or the groom either. A five piece band was setting up in the corner by the dais. Mac wandered over there. "Nice wedding," he said to the bass guitarist, who was plugging up.

"Yeah," the bearded man said, giving Mac the once-over. "It'd be better at night. Tips are bigger then."

"No doubt. Hey, I'm wondering," Mac said, "where the bride is."

"Oh, they're gone."

"Where to?"

"Honeymoon," the man said, strapping on his guitar.

"Already? Reception is --"

"Had an early flight. So they had quick pictures and quick toasts here, and off they went in the limo."

Mac's heart fell. "I see."

"Sorry you missed her," the guitarist grinned. "She looked gorgeous. Outstanding rack."

Back at the door, Abigail fell in beside him. "You heard," she commented.

"About the rack?"

"No," she said, tone measured, "the honeymoon."

"Yeah."

"New Zealand," Abigail observed. "Six weeks."

"We'll talk to her when she gets back," Mac said as they trotted down the steps toward the sidewalk.

"Oh, this'll be all over way before then."

"You think so?"

"Count on it."

---

As Mac rolled the Suburban into the gravel commuter lot by the Suspension Bridge, he said, tentatively, "You know, I was thinking, maybe we could have lunch?"

"We could," Abigail said readily. "Except. . . ."

"Except what?"

She looked at him as he stopped his car by her Sunfire. "How good an idea is it?" she asked.

"You have doubts?" he asked, knowing full well.

She was nodding. "We work together, for one thing."

"True."

"You're married, for another."

"Yes."

"I think I understand what that's about --"

"You do? Then maybe when you have a minute, you can explain it to me."

She struggled to stay serious. "But for me there's no room for rationalizing. I have to play everything exactly straight. And," she added, "I'm coming off this ugly break-up."

"I know."

"And then," she said lightly, "there's the small matter of the red-head."

Mac shut off the engine, leaned back. "It was just lunch, I was talking about. It's past noon, people have to eat."

"I know. And I appreciate it. And I'd really, really like to." She fell silent.

"And?" Mac prodded.

"The real problem," she said, "is the attraction." When he did not answer, she said, "Come on. You know, and I know, there's an attraction here."

"Yes," Mac replied, realizing it himself now.

"What we don't need, is to make two messy lives even messier right now."

"Indeed."

She paused, eyed him. "So, let's just leave it at this: It was an interesting morning. And I enjoyed it. Thank you. She patted his wrist: "I'll see you Monday."

She dropped from the Suburban, shut the door, boarded her gleaming white Sunfire. Mac waited and watched till she'd pulled out of the lot, joining and quickly swallowed up by the exiting bridge traffic bound for downtown. By then the warmth of her hand on his wrist had faded.

He made the drive home in just under an hour. His feelings were a mix of frustration over Tschoepe's getaway, the continuing stalemate of the Bucaro matter, the quandary about Libby, and what he was now thinking of as the narrow escape from an entanglement that, as Abigail had wisely pointed out, neither she nor he needed.

Right now, anyway.

---

In Mac's kitchen, the phone machine message light was blinking.