Clean Slate

Chapter 62

Tired to the bone, and home all alone, Mac collapsed atop his bedspread shortly after returning, seeking escape to his old friend sleep. This reminded him of the days and weeks after Nicholas died, when Mac slept ten, twelve, even fourteen hours per day. And woke just rested enough to make it through the other ten or twelve hours. Today was different. He had his bad moments, and he'd have the occasional bad day, but he no longer felt the continual ache of torment over Nicholas. Today he was dealing with a aftershocks of a traumatic event. Having been to the darkest valley over Nicholas, Mac knew he would come back from this. Given time, and a little rest.

And then he'd have to deal with another shift in the tectonic plates of his life. Judge Wildern gone. Mac himself newly notorious. He was fairly sure he'd emerge unscathed, at least in a legal sense. But people had long memories, and innocent though he was, Mac knew he'd be remembered for this. He wondered, as he drifted off to sleep, how it would affect him, his reputation, his ability to do his job, in the long run. . . .

In the blurry episodic dreams Mac kept hearing phones. He popped awake in the late afternoon, feeling thick-headed and hungry. He'd had nothing to eat since this breakfast, and that meal, his first in twenty-four hours, had not sat with him so well. Washing his face and hands, he went out to the kitchen. The answering machine was blinking red. Mac mashed PLAY.

"Hi, Mac, it's Bren," came his neighbor's cheery, confident voice. "Just so you know, I'm bringing potato salad. Nobody gave me a head count, so I'm bringing the max. See you later."

Huh?

"Hoddy," came a male voice, "Perkins here. I've been dilly-dallying around on this and I apologize. I was hoping something'd break our way. But the fact is I'm never gonna get my hands on those surveillance tapes. It's one brick wall after another. You know what I think, I think they've been destroyed already, and nobody wants to admit it. I hate like hell to throw in the towel on you, but I'm about tapped out on this deal.

"So we're even on the money, is the way I reckon it. And I hope you get to some kind of resolution on your wife. I'm pulling for you, man. You're good people. Ever get up my way, or need anything by way of my somewhat peculiar talents, give a holler. 'Bye now."

Smiling, Mac deleted both messages. Yeah, he thought, as ugly as things got, the whole mess did have its positive sides. He'd met Ben Perkins. Gotten to know Abigail Heartwell. Been introduced to Jolyon Stillman. And – the thought made him feel awestruck – he'd lived. He'd taken another swerve through the dark side, and he'd lived. And he was glad.

Progress –

Noise, motors, tires on gravel, sounded outside. Curiously, Mac stepped out onto the front porch. Two cars sat behind his Suburban, and from them emerged Flip, Scoot, Howdie. They were chattering noisily, collecting bags of food and several six-packs of beer from the trunks. Mac opened the screen door and went down the stairs. "Hey," he said amiably, "was I expecting you?"

"Better be," Howdie said. "Cards tonight, remember? Set the date over a week ago."

"I've been busy," Mac said, spotting a motorcycle coming up the road.

"Yeah," Flip said acerbically, bustling by him with bags in arms, "tough to remember old friends when you're busy having shootouts with the town's leading citizens. Waah, waah, waah. Set up on the deck?"

"Suits me," Mac said vaguely, watching the road.

"We're thinking," Scoot added, nudging Mac as he went by, "that the shot to your head will make you our poker-patsy tonight."

"How reverent is that, Fadduh? Shame on you." What Mac had thought was a motorcycle was actually an overgrown scooter, ridden by a very oversized man in blue jacket, jeans, and boots. The bike swerved into the driveway and stopped on the lawn, and Joe Pipestone climbed off, shucking his red football helmet. Surprised and pleased, Mac went out to him. "Hey, what's up?"

"Got a call," Joe said, "about a party for you? Brought my own bottle," he added, gesturing at the saddle bag.

"Great," Mac answered, disbelieving. "Go around back, that's where the guys are. Who called you?"

"Some woman you know?" Joe said, getting a wine bottle out of his saddle bag. "Julie, she said her name was?"

"You gotta be kidding." Mac had planned to walk with Joe, but just then more vehicles were coming up Old Kennesaw Road. In the late afternoon sunlight, amid the risen dust from the earlier traffic, Mac saw a white Pontiac Sunfire, and behind it a gray Ford Expedition, and behind that a white Ford F-350 pickup, and behind that still – way in the distance – was this possible – an oversized bright red Dodge Ram with the high spotlights mounted to the roof. . . .

All headed his way.

Watching them approach – and hearing the cheery clamor emanating from behind his house – Mac smiled. Has anyone ever been luckier than me? Anyone, anywhere, ever?

Epilogue