Clean Slate

Chapter 48

"Tapes?" Mac asked.

"Yeah. Videos. I found out they have security cameras going 24/7 at all the exits. It's first class stuff, digital, high resolution, color, time-stamped and everything. Everything but narration by Walter Cronkite."

"Wowee. The big city. Just can't beat it."

"Yessir, we do do things first cabin here in Dee-troit City."

"Indeed."

"If I can wangle a look at those tapes, we might can see her leaving, and establish what time. If it turns out she waltzed in and then zipped right back out, then we'll know --"

"She was for-sure scamming," Mac finished.

"That's what I'm thinking."

"Can you get the tapes?"

"Gonna be tough. Gonna require some tall finagling. Want me to try?"

"Depends. You any good at finagling?"

"I'm better at breaking arms," Perkins admitted. "But yeah, I usually manage."

Mac considered. "Give it a quick shot," he said. "You've gone above and beyond already."

"We'll put the blocks to her," Perkins said. "How's your deal there?"

"I'm doing what you told me."

"What I told you?"

"Precisely."

"Oh shit."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't remember what I said."

"Me either, quite frankly. But whatever it was, I'm sure I'm following it to the letter."

"That's your first mistake."

"Time will tell."

"Bye, Mac."

"Later."

Mac flipped his phone shut, smiling. Ironic, he thought: as painful as investigating Suzanne was for him, without that he'd never have met Ben Perkins, who could be, for all his dark side, quite a hoot. He got to his feet, wandered the room for a little bit. Dinner time was upon him and he was hungry. He'd just decided to hold out for pizza, once out of here, when Mike Privette returned. The hefty man in twill was less cheery than before. "Diana says she'll see you," he told Mac, and then put a hand on his arm. "You're not really friends with her, are you."

"Only met her once," Mac admitted.

"She said you're down to the Court House. She's not in trouble again, is she?"

Privette's expression held nothing but worry. Mac remembered Diana's claim that she'd told her new husband all about her "wicked, evil past." He clapped Mike's shoulder reassuringly, looked straight into his eyes: "She's in no trouble whatsoever."

"Okay." They headed for the exit. "Just found out," Privette said, "jeez. . .Diana's not going home any time soon, after all."

"Really?" Mac replied as they went into the corridor.

"Said this bad pregnancy, it's worse than they thought. They gotta put her on medication, and keep close watch. If they have to operate, it could be real sudden."

"Sorry to hear that."

Privette pondered a bit as they walked, and then mustered what cheer he could: "Aw, it'll be fine. She's a tough gal, once of those north Germans – you know how they are: they waddle off the potato field, squat, deliver their kid, go straight back to work."

"I see."

"With all this here," Privette gestured around, "all this here to help her, she'll be fine."

"No question."

Privette pointed them to a slightly ajar room door, knocked once, and then went in, beckoning Mac to follow. The single room was small and cramped, with a window across, two small guest chairs, TV mounted in the corner, an I.V. tree, and a couple of dark silent monitoring machines standing against the walls. The chrome railed bed was raised at the head about halfway, and lying on it in a pale green hospital gown, covered to her waist by a sheet, was Diana Privette. She held a book that Mac had the sudden certain sense she had not been reading. "Hi, honey," she said as her husband went to her and kissed her. "Mr. McGladrey," she said to Mac. "So nice of you to come by."

"I hate to intrude," Mac said.

"Not at all." Her long auburn hair was freshly combed smooth around her thin face. She looked paler then he remembered, and her eyes seemed larger. No makeup at all, no rings or other jewelry or adornment other than the white plastic ID strap on her wrist, wearing unattractive hospital issue clothes. It seemed to Mac that she'd been extracted from her world, from her very life, and put into confinement here, a ticking time bomb. The I.V. drip was plugged into her right hand. Mac idly wondered what was in it. She pushed her book aside. "I'm sorry," she said, "about not finishing our talk the other day."

"That's all right."

"I'd like to now." She squeezed her husband's hand. "Do you mind?"

"No problem, honey." He bent and kissed the top of her head, then, with a searching look at Mac, left the room.

Mac took a chair near the foot of her bed. The room felt oppressive to him. He cast about for a place to start. Given what was happening to her here, talking about her past seemed so irrelevant. But that was the mission, and she must have known that, or she'd never have agreed to see him. "I'm sorry for your trouble here," Mac said.

"Well," she said after a long silence, "I've had better days."

"I'm sure."

"Turns out it's – cervical."

"What is?"

"The pregnancy. Ectopic comes in different flavors. Mine's cervical."

Mac asked carefully, "So, on the scale of seriousness, is this --"

"Bad. Very bad. About as bad as it gets." Mac thought she was staring at him, then realized she was not seeing anything at all just then. "They're trying medication, first. Methotrexate. To reduce the size of the mass. And then surgery." Her tone was calm, reportorial, but Mac, though he hardly knew her, could detect the gnawing of fear around the edges. "Meantime I have to stay here on total lockdown. With surgeons on constant alert. Because it could rupture any time. And if it does. . . . And even with surgery, there's the chance of massive bleeding, infection, huge damage to my plumbing."

"Well, they're good here," Mac said. "Kindred's state of the art."

"I know that. But I know me better. And I can do the math. And what all this adds up to is. . .that I'm going to die."

Mac felt a pang, a tightness in his throat. Quietly he said, "Come on, Diana."

For a moment she had trouble speaking. "Yes yes, I know. I hear the cheery talk of the docs, and I see the hope in Mike's eyes, and I know all about Kindred's cutting edge technology. And I think about how good my life has gotten, finally, and how unfair this is, so unfair. . . . But none of that, none of it changes the simple fact that I know I'm going to die, Mr. McGladrey. Very soon. And I heard what you said, at my work before. And I have things I need to make right." Now she was staring hard at him, expression set, as if braced for rejection. "Will you help me?"

"Whatever it takes."

That seemed to give her relief. She blinked, and her eyes seemed to glimmer for a moment. "When Mike told me you were in the waiting room, I knew this was supposed to happen. Thank you."

Mac took a deep breath. "But let's be clear about something. I'm moving forward assuming only that you're gonna walk out of here in a day or two, good as new. Are we straight on that."

She tried to smile. "I'm grateful. . .for your support, Mr. McGladrey."

"Mac."

"Thank you."

"It's all right. It's fine." Mac took a deep breath. "What can you tell me?"

"First. . .Could you get Mike to come back in?"

"Sure." Mac went to the door, leaned out into the hall. Mike Privette stood by the wall, arms folded. At the sight of Mac he nodded and came back in, and wordlessly kissed his wife. Mac went back to his chair, but did not sit. He found himself wishing he were anywhere but here. But then, he thought, a big part of his job was to help people make their wrongs right, to free themselves of the tyranny of their past, so they could go forward with a clean slate. Sad as he was over Diana's predicament, worried as he was for her over the danger she was in, he felt honored at the privilege she was according him, to be present with her and an aid to her at a time like this.

Diana reached out her hands, and her husband took them. "Honey," she said, "there's something I haven't told you. Something bad."

"Okay," he said neutrally.

"When I was in all that trouble? Years ago?" He nodded. "One of the Court House men, who ran the work program – he –" She released Mike's hands and wiped her eyes. Mike fumbled a tissue out of a box on the shelf and gave it to her. She just crumpled it in her hand. "He forced me to have sex, Mike. He raped me. Over and over again. He did it to a lot of the girls."

"My God, sweetheart," Mike said softly. "Jesus." He turned and looked at Mac, then reached for his wife's hands. "Wasn't your fault," he said huskily.

"It was not her fault," Mac affirmed.

"I know, I know," Diana said. "But I kept quiet. Because I was scared. And I just. . .put it behind me. Or tried to. And by doing that I left him free to hurt other women. And that's my crime. I could have protected others, but I didn't." She tried to smile. "But now? Mr. McGladrey is working on the case. He wants me to help him – put this man away. And I need to help him. Is it all right?"

Mike stood frozen, as if taking in the words and phrases a segment at a time. Finally he said, "Whatever you want, okay? Whatever you want." He looked at Mac again, with an expression of ferocity so brief only Mac saw it. "Whatever."

She reached up for Mike and they hugged. Then, patting him on the shoulders, she eased him back, and applied the tissue to her eyes. "Okay, Mac. What do we do?"

He stepped toward her hesitantly. "I think you should give a sworn affidavit. I'll round up a stenographer/notary, you can dictate it right here."

"Okay. How quick can you set that up?"

"Pretty quick." Mac's brain was racing. "You know what, would you mind if we videotaped it too? Make it absolutely iron clad."

"That's fine," she said, sounding tired now. "Just make it soon. As soon as you can."

"I'll get on it first thing in the morning."

"What about Jessie? Is she helping you too?"

"She's been. . .less than cooperative."

"Have her call me," said Diana Privette.

---

On his way out Mac poked his head into the waiting room, just on the off chance, and sure enough: Libby was there.

She rose as he came in. She wore a taupe colored double breasted jacket over a matching stretch pants that widened at her sandals. Gold chains gleamed on her yellow shirt, and earrings dangled brightly beneath her fiery red hair. It was, for her, a modest get-up: no long bare legs, no plunging neckline. She looked intent and wary and was clearly sizing him up, looking for clues. "Did you see her?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Can I go in now?"

"Wouldn't recommend it."

"They said," Libby gestured toward the desk, "I could at least talk to her husband."

The waiting room was mostly empty, but Mac realized they were being overheard. "Can we talk a minute?" he asked, and escorted her into the hallway. "The good news is," he said quietly, "she's giving us a sworn affidavit. On video. Chapter and verse."

"Oh my God," Libby muttered. "That is pluperfect fabulous."

"But that's offset by this," Mac went on, and proceeded to tell her about the ectopic pregnancy and the potentialities. Libby was hearing him – as a good reporter she heard just about everything – but Mac could tell her thought processes were on the affidavit and the story. "So obviously," he concluded, "we need to do this quick."

"I'll say. When will it be?"

"Hoping tomorrow."

"And of course I'll be there."

"On one condition." She angled her head. "Not a word of this gets out," Mac told her, "till we have it all sewn up." She started to object, but he held up a hand. "Not one word, Libby. Not to your editor, not to anybody. You'll have the story, and it'll be all yours. But you don't make a move with it till I give the green light."

"But --"

"Not till I say. These are the terms."

She could not help but look somewhat put out. But she quelled whatever complaints that were burning behind her lips. "Okay. I don't like it, but okay."

She frowned, nodded. They were silent then, in the glare of the light in the mostly empty hospital hall. For his part, Mac felt self conscious at that point, keenly aware of Libby within reach, remembering his flight Friday night. Sensing that was on her mind too, he said, "You know, it wasn't really your fault, what happened the other night. And I'm sorry I melted down. I try not to do that in front of people."

She sighed, with what seemed like relief. "Well like I said, I should have told you about my kids. I shouldn't have just dropped it on you. I didn't think it would matter. I wasn't thinking."

"Yeah, well."

She reached out for his hand and squeezed it. "You know," she said softly, "I truly am terribly sorry about your boy. I didn't mention it because. . .you didn't say anything and. . .I didn't know what to say. I still don't know what to say. What can I possibly say?"

"Well, for starters, his name."

"His name?"

"Nicholas."

"Yes. Nicholas," she fumbled. "I am so sorry about what happened to Nicholas."

"Thank you."

She stepped closer. "But you have to understand, Mac, what it's like from my side. You don't tell me how you feel, you don't tell me what you want, so I'm just guessing all the time, and I'm going to guess wrong and end up hurting you when I really don't mean to."

"I do what I can," Mac said, "given my many imperfections."

"I think you're a pretty good guy, actually," she said, almost shyly.

"And you'd have no way of knowing this," Mac went on. "And you may find it hard to believe. But these days I'm actually a lot better. I don't hurt all the time. I don't hate waking up. Most of the time, I'd rather live." Though she moved not a muscle, he sensed her recoiling. "You want to know how I feel – there it is."

She sighed, folded her arms. "You're wrapped so tight around an axle," she said quietly. "It's a shame. Because I've waited so long for a man like you. And we're so good together."

"In most ways that's true," Mac said, trying to be truthful and not hurt her at the same time.

"So. . .to ask you something I never ask men. . .are we keeping on?"