The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  He placed the .45 back on the bench, then took his earplugs from the lockbox. They were regulation. Firing range specified. He buried them deep in each ear, drowning out his wife’s ongoing screams. He retrieved his weapon, released the safety and chose a target—the VOC filtering unit on the opposite wall. It was the size and shape of a beer keg. White. There were three flanged holes at the top for the accordion tubes running up into the house. Trapdoors for the pleated filters cleansing the house of unwanted molds and free radicals were spaced evenly along the unit’s housing. Truax drew a bead on a screw head just above the middle door. Command and control. He released his breath and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked unexpectedly hard, causing him to fumble and almost drop it. The shot had pulled a few inches to the right but the level was good. The hole was jagged, as big as his fist. Dust wafted from it. Noxious particles. Freed radicals. He put the safety back on and slipped the weapon into his belt.

  Irma had stopped screaming by the time he removed the earplugs. It reminded him of the way a single shot could silence an entire jungle. He loaded the second magazine, which he put into his pants pocket. Then he put everything else back in the box. He didn’t bother to lock or hide it. There was no reason. There was a holster somewhere, in one of the trunks he’d brought home. He decided to leave it stowed. The weapon was enough.

  He pulled the string next to the naked bulb and went upstairs. Irma was still on Susan’s bed. The animals he’d brought his daughter surrounded her, strewn in lifeless array. His wife looked at him and then looked at the weapon in his belt. She closed her eyes.

  “I’m going to be out now,” he said. “I have to work.”

  She nodded. He turned to go.

  “John?”

  He stopped in the doorway.

  “He’s not going to get away with this, is he?”

  He stood in silence for a moment.

  “No. He’s not.”

  32

  Swope stared at himself in the mirror’s buttery light. Though his skin was a few shades too sallow and networks of pale veins cracked the whites of his eyes, he still appeared rested and in control. Anyone meeting him now would never guess that his mind had spent the last twelve hours churning at full throttle; never suspect that his guts were twisted into a constipated, percolating knot from the pressure of the worst night of his life. He dispensed some hot foam from the machine Sally had given him last Christmas. It felt good as he applied it to his stubbled cheeks, the molten warmth making him long momentarily for the comfort of his king-sized bed. But it was too early to rest. This thing still wasn’t in the bag. He applied some cold steel to his face as an antidote to his momentary stupor, scraping a highway of flesh from his Adam’s apple to his lower lip.

  Teddy was going to be all right.

  It was a new blade, opening a constellation of minute wounds that would begin healing before he’d even finished. He scraped off another line. He’d never stopped loving wet shaving. A lot of guys had given it up recently for Norelcos. The technology was getting so good that you could hardly tell the difference, especially with lightly bearded men like him. But Swope stuck with the old way. And not just for the ritual. He liked the cuts, the minute fissures that would hum with pain when he slapped on the English Leather. He wouldn’t give that sensation up for all the electrics in Japan.

  Teddy was going to be all right.

  He pulled the remainder of the foam from his face. Row after row, like mowing a lawn. There was something lulling in the motion. Exhaustion began to creep back into his mind. He shook it off, knowing that fatigue would open him up to sentimentality and self-doubt, making him question and then regret what he was doing. But those were feelings he could not afford. He couldn’t afford to wonder if he’d pushed this all too far, couldn’t let himself feel pity for Joel and his father. Because the price of indulging such emotions would be his son. And he was not willing to pay that. Not to a man who betrayed him.

  He finished shaving and wiped away the residual cream, then took the English Leather from its sinkside perch and slapped it on his cheeks, neck and chin. Satisfying jolts radiated from his brain stem straight down to his nads.

  Teddy was going to be all right. The news couldn’t be better. It had been an amazing comeback—better than the Heidi Bowl. In just a few hours he’d managed to turn the whole mess around. Not only saving his son, but rescuing his own future as well. Joel had been charged. In a few hours he’d be arraigned. And it wasn’t just Chones who was pointing the finger—the county attorney’s office and the SBI were involved as well. Luckily, Byron Bench, the county attorney, was on vacation in Bermuda, leaving his young assistant, Jill Van Riper, in charge. Though Bench was a wily old country lawyer who was capable of standing up to Swope in the crunch, Van Riper was a humorless, none-to-bright drone with a University of Maryland law degree and the worst legs he’d ever seen. Swope always half suspected she had a crush on him. She’d be easily handled. Not that it mattered. Donald Duck could have prosecuted this one. The evidence was so strong as to constitute an open-and-shut case. Swope had learned in his 5 A.M. conversation with Van Riper that the deputies had arrived at the Wooten house in the still of the night to find Joel wide awake, fully dressed and clearly agitated. Better yet, he initially tried to deny having been out that evening, a position clearly contradicted by the Newton Plaza security guard who’d spotted him soon after Susan went into the drink.

  They had their boy. And he wasn’t Teddy.

  After he finished shaving, Swope spent a few minutes massaging his gums with the rubberized prod at the base of his toothbrush. He then went back into the bedroom and put on the fresh suit Sally had laid out for him, a navy blue Brooks Brothers number with broad lapels and French cuffs. It was nearly one—the SBI men would be arriving soon to interview Teddy. Chones had called him at the office earlier to say that the detectives had a few small points to clear up with their star witness. Nothing major. They just wanted to dot their i’s and cross their t’s so they could get the hell out of Dodge. Nobody wanted to spend more time than they had to on a good-as-gold case. Chones wondered if Teddy might come down to Cannon City for the talk. Swope had politely told him that was out of the question. His son was still suffering from the trauma of last night’s events. He wasn’t going anywhere. If anybody wanted to talk to him they could come by the house and conduct their interview in Swope’s presence.

  That conversation had only been a small part of what had been a busy morning for Swope. He’d stayed at the lake until the girl’s body had been carted off, then taken Teddy home, where he put him in his room and told him to stay put. A quick change of shirt and he was back at Newton Plaza to work the problem. He’d never been sharper than he was during that long morning. He was Don Shula, Gene Kranz and George Allen rolled into one. First, he placed a series of anonymous phone calls to area newspapers, many of them publications which had recently hitched on to the Wooten bandwagon, to let them know that the builder’s son was in the Cannon City jail under suspicion of murdering a white girl. Sleepy editors had snapped to at that one. Then he woke Gus Savage at his Lake Shore Drive apartment. Their conversation had been short and sweet.

  “Have you spoken with Earl?” Savage asked when Swope was through explaining the situation.

  “He tried to call. I told him I didn’t think it would be appropriate for us to have contact.”

  “Should I talk to him?” Savage asked.

  “Your call, Gus.”

  “Maybe I’ll just see how it pans out.”

  “What I’d do.”

  “Jesus. This is a real kick in the ass. So what do you think, Austin?”

  “What do I think? I think the poor dumb kid’s guilty as hell.”

  “All right.” There was a short pause. “Austin, listen to me. I want you to manage this. Limit the damage here. If it means distancing ourselves from Wooten, then so be it.”

  “I’m on it, Gus.”

  “Whatever it takes—I don’t want the compa
ny’s investment compromised.”

  “Understood.”

  After that he tracked down Van Riper. They spoke off the record, the prosecutor explaining that, after a phone call to Bench, she was leaning toward charging Joel with manslaughter. After all, it would be tough proving he’d intended to hurt the girl, much less kill her. Swope agreed. Nobody wanted to see Joel Wooten overly punished. Though he did have one idea. Wouldn’t it be better to start out with murder two, then dangle a manslaughter plea in front of his parents? Make it seem like a way out of their bind. Let them know that Joel would get five years, max, with no more than eighteen months actually in the pokey. Provided, of course, the Wootens accepted the deal within, say, twenty-four hours, so there would be no time to bring in a real lawyer instead of the earnest-but-lightweight Raymond McNutt. They could easily get Spivey to withhold bail for the time being, just to keep the screws tight. Swope knew from experience that people were far more inclined to accept deals when the clock was ticking. When Van Riper hesitated, he mentioned that if she went to trial Wooten might be able to muster all sorts of black cronies to come to Cannon City, radical lawyers and protesters and civil rights leaders. The whole thing could turn into a circus. Van Riper saw the light after that, agreeing to run it by her boss.

  A deep swell of relief had washed over him as he hung up the phone from that call. Getting the authorities to work for a guilty plea meant Teddy wouldn’t have to take the stand. Though the kid had been a rock so far, there was only so much pressure his young shoulders could bear. Besides, Swope knew that if it was handled right, then Wooten would bite. He was a realist. A man used to playing the hand dealt him. He’d know that it was time to cut his losses. Swope was sure of it.

  The rest of the morning was spent tying off loose ends. After a few more calls to the papers, he summoned Holmes to his office and ordered him to draft a letter placing Earl Wooten on indefinite leave. And he wanted Holmes to deliver it himself by the close of business to allay suspicion that Swope was behind any of this. After he was gone Swope placed a call to Spivey, claiming that he’d just heard a rumor from somebody in Earl Wooten’s office that he had been looking into one-way tickets to Liberia that morning. Spivey said nothing, though Swope could tell by the silence that he’d taken the bait. There’d definitely be no bail now. After one more call to Chones to make sure there were no more surprises coming down the pike, it was time to go home for a much-needed shower.

  Sally was in the kitchen, cooking her homemade lentil soup. Teddy’s favorite. Steam from the pan wafted through her stiff and flawless hair. She’d been shooting Swope somber looks ever since he got in, acting as if she sensed she wasn’t being told the whole story.

  “John Truax called while you were in the shower.”

  Swope froze. Truax. In the morning’s rush he’d forgotten all about him. He snatched the phone from the wall. As he dialed he was visited by an unwelcome image of the man’s daughter breaking the lake’s surface, though he used his mental discipline to push it gently back into the murk. The line was busy. Not surprisingly. He’d try again later. Or maybe swing by his house to offer condolences, help with arrangements and, most urgent, make sure Truax understood that he had to back off Wooten. Their mission was accomplished. The campaign was over.

  “Teddy up?” Swope asked as he replaced the receiver.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll wake him.”

  “Shouldn’t he sleep?”

  “The police want to talk to him.”

  Sally turned from the stove with an alarmed expression.

  “Don’t sweat it, Sal. I’ll be there.”

  Their eyes held for a moment.

  “What’s going on here, Austin?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

  For a moment he was tempted to tell her. Let her know what he was doing so she could say it was all right. Let her assure him that he was only being strong for his son. But then she would know. And he didn’t want that. He wanted her safe. Just as he wanted Teddy to be safe.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” he said evenly.

  “I mean have you told me everything about what happened last night?”

  “Of course I have.” He took a step toward her. “Sal, what is it?”

  Her eyes traveled back toward the swirling steam.

  “I don’t know. It just seems so out of character for Joel to have done something like this. And Teddy’s acting so strange. …”

  “Well, obviously we never knew the whole story about Joel. And as for Teddy, that was an awful thing he went through.”

  “I know that, Austin. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “When I talked to him about it after you got home he just seemed so … reluctant. So unsure of everything. Almost like he was holding something back.”

  Swope’s mind raced. This would not do. He couldn’t have her doubting the story. It would jeopardize everything.

  “Sally, look at me.”

  She did as he asked. He could see in her expression that she wanted to believe.

  “The reason Teddy’s being hesitant is because he doesn’t want to tell the truth. He wants to protect Joel. You know how he feels about him. If he’s acting strange, that’s the reason. He feels guilty about being the one who witnessed this horrible crime. We start second-guessing him now and he just might start telling lies to shield his friend. And if that happens the cops are going to come down on him and there will be nothing I can do to help. Do you understand me?”

  She mouthed a yes. He could see in her eyes that she still wasn’t sure. But he could also see that there was no way she was going to press him any further. Not when Teddy’s well-being was at stake.

  “You have to trust me, Sally,” he continued. “I’m going to make sure that everybody comes out of this terrible situation as well as they can. Including Joel. All right?”

  She managed a weak smile.

  “Now, let me go get him and we can all sit down to a nice meal together,” Swope said.

  Swope knocked on Teddy’s door. There was no answer. He pushed it open to find his son propped up in bed. Large black headphones covered his ears, music seeping from them like the noise of insects in a deep jungle. Though his eyes were firmly shut he was clearly awake. His long hair was plastered to his cheeks and neck. He’d changed clothes, though the new ones looked just as wrinkled and tattered as last night’s drenched outfit. His gray T-shirt had the words PROPERTY OF ALCATRAZ stenciled across its chest.

  Swope sat on the edge of the bed. Teddy’s eyes fell open. They were listless and rheumy. He pulled off the headphones and dropped them on the floor, waiting to hear what his dad had to say. The bug music continued.

  “How you doin’, sport?” Swope asked.

  Teddy stared at him, his eyes so bereft that Swope feared it was all over, right then and there. His son would no longer be able to stay the course. But then he shrugged and Swope knew that they were still in business. Pride ballooned within him. The boy had really showed him something last night. He’d learned a lesson they’d never teach him at Harvard Law—and learned it well.

  “All right, I guess,” Teddy said.

  “You’re not losing heart on me here?”

  “Losing heart? No.”

  “You’ve got to talk to one more batch of cops today. You up for it?”

  “You’ll be there, right?”

  “Absolutely. Just tell them what we told Chones last night and everything will be okay. Anything else comes up, I’ll handle it.”

  Teddy shrugged again. Swope stood and headed toward the door, turning back toward his son just before leaving the room.

  “Oh, and Teddy? You might want to think about a different shirt.”

  They ate in silence. Teddy, now wearing a respectable mauve Izod, barely touched his soup, much to Sally’s chagrin. Every once in a while he’d smile to himself and mouth silent words. Swope watched him closely, wondering if he sho
uld call off the interview. But he knew that the sooner this thing was over, the better.

  The doorbell rang just as Sally began to collect the plates.

  “Ready?” Swope asked.

  “Koo-koo-kachoo,” his son answered.

  He deposited Teddy in his office, then greeted the cops at the front door. There were two of them. The older one carried a briefcase. His name was Roebling. The younger man was DeLisi. He had a Fu Manchu mustache, a shiny leather coat and what he thought must be a tough demeanor. We’ll see about that, Swope thought as he led them to his office. The cops paused at the door.

  “We were kind of hoping to talk to him alone,” Roebling explained.

  “Why’s that?” Swope asked, his voice stern but calm.

  “No real reason,” the older cop continued. “Just habit.”

  “He’s still pretty shaken up, guys,” Swope said. “Any problem if I stay?”

  Roebling shrugged.

  “Why not,” he said.

  Teddy sat slumped in one of the chairs facing the desk. He didn’t rise when he saw the two men. Swope handled the introductions; he arranged the furniture. DeLisi pulled a notepad from one of his side pockets.

  “So why don’t you tell us about last night?”

  Teddy told his story. When he finished DeLisi wrote for a moment, catching up. He looked up when he realized everyone was staring at him.

  “So, Teddy, one question—that your kick-ass Firebird out there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Bet it can book.”

  Teddy shrugged.

  “Sure.”