The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  “And you were driving it last night, am I right?”

  Swope’s radar clicked on. This didn’t sound good. His eyes flittered between his son and the young cop. Teddy nodded slowly, also sensing that something was amiss.

  “Here’s the thing,” DeLisi continued. “According to the security guard, Joel was on foot. My question is, how was he able to follow you and Susan from her house all the way to the lake? I mean, the guy would have to be Bob Hayes on dexies to keep up with wheels like yours.”

  Swope felt his heart begin to pound. Chilled sweat beaded on his just-scrubbed skin. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of this? Joel following Teddy was a major point. A first principle. He should have seen it a mile away. This was just the sort of inconsistency that allowed a cop the opportunity to shoot their whole lumbering dirigible right out of the summer sky. He looked at his son, who met DeLisi’s stony gaze over his tinted glasses. Teddy’s eyes were utterly unreadable. He could be about to say anything. Swope’s chest felt like it had been pumped full of helium. He wondered if anybody else could hear his heart pounding.

  Finally, Teddy spoke.

  “Joel knew that’s where we’d go,” he said, his voice as flat and cold as a frozen lake. “He didn’t have to follow us.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because that’s where we partied, ever since the teen center closed. Joel and Susan and I always went there. It’s the only make-out place left in this freakin’ town. You can ask anybody.”

  DeLisi held Teddy’s gaze for a moment, then flipped his pad shut and shrugged.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I figured.”

  “Anything else?” Swope asked quickly.

  Roebling shrugged.

  “Just putting Joel Wooten in Jessup.”

  Swope got the cops out of there as soon as possible. When he returned to his office Teddy was still in his chair, one leg slung casually over its arm. Swope felt nothing but pride at the way he’d handled the unexpected question. The kid truly was a genius.

  “Was that okay?”

  “It was better than okay, Teddy.”

  “Is that the sort of stuff I get to expect at the trial?”

  “Don’t worry. There won’t be any trial. I’ve arranged it so Joel will have pled guilty by the weekend. Like I said last night, nobody wants this dragging on.”

  Teddy nodded distantly. Something was clearly still bothering him.

  “I’ve been thinking …”

  He smiled, then frowned.

  “Go ahead, Teddy.”

  “Is there any way we can keep him from going to jail, you know, at all?”

  Swope sucked in air.

  “Not an option,” he said gently. “But like I said last night, I’m working on a deal which will see him do as little time as possible.”

  “How much?”

  Swope snatched a number from the cool air.

  “Three years as an absolute maximum. Almost certainly less.”

  Teddy looked unhappy at this.

  “Three years?”

  “At the max. Probably closer to two. I’m sorry, Teddy, but given the circumstances, that’s the best we can do.” Swope smiled tightly. “Hey, kiddo, I thought we discussed this last night.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s just the idea of him being in jail …”

  “But that’s the thing.” Swope decided a small, palliative fib was in order. “He’ll make bail today. And then he gets to stay at home until the judge decides what to do. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

  Teddy nodded distantly. Swope took a moment to examine his son. He could see in his twitching eyes and lips evidence of that big brain working overtime. He knew he’d better say something to put this to rest.

  “Look, I know it’s hard for you right now, thinking about Joel. You just have to keep focused on the important things. Your family and your future. Like I said last night, either you or Joel has to take responsibility for the problem he created through his reckless and selfish behavior, and, all things considered, it’s better that it’s him. I mean, I can help the guy a lot more than his father would ever be able to help you. Am I right, or am I right?”

  Teddy stood.

  “As always, you’re right.”

  Swope put a fatherly hand on his son’s frail shoulder.

  “You’re tired and you just might be coming down with something. Go get some sleep. These things always look better on the other side of twelve hours of serious shut-eye. Believe me.”

  After his son left Swope collapsed in his desk chair and cursed himself for not anticipating the Firebird question. Totally bush league. If Teddy weren’t so damned smart then they’d both be taking a ride down to Cannon City with messieurs Roebling and DeLisi right about now. He’d have to do a better job staying sharp until Joel’s plea had been entered. And Teddy was definitely remaining under wraps for the foreseeable future.

  Swope leaned forward and set three balls of his Newton’s cradle in motion, trying to think if there was anything else that needed to be taken care of. Just Truax. He reached for the phone and dialed the now familiar number.

  Busy. It was time to pay the bereaved a visit.

  Nobody answered the door. He rang, he knocked. Nothing. He was just about to leave when he saw movement through one of the glass panels.

  Irma, standing at the top of the stairs. She swayed slightly, her eyes focused on the empty air between them. Swope held up a hand to get her attention but she didn’t seem to notice him. After a moment she disappeared back down the hallway.

  Swope tried the handle. It was unlocked. He stepped into the house. It was cold—the air conditioner was on too high.

  “John?”

  There was no answer. He walked back to the kitchen, where the phone receiver dangled inches above the floor, like one of those lunatic jumpers from New Guinea you saw on National Geographic specials. He opened the basement door, thinking Truax might have fled down there. But it was dark. He was just about to shut the door when the smell wafted up to him. Gunpowder. There was a strange broken noise as well, the ruptured chug of some ruined machine. Swope felt his heart begin to pound as strongly as it had when the cops were questioning Teddy. An image of Truax with a gun in his mouth danced through his mind. He knew he had to go down. There might be some kind of note.

  He hit the lights just inside the door and walked halfway down the steps. After a long, steeling pause, he took a deep breath and looked. There was an open toolbox on a large workbench; there were crates and bikes and toys. But no sergeant. Swope felt himself relax. Guys like Truax always seemed to snuff themselves at the workbench. If that was empty, then he was probably home clear. He walked down the remainder of the steps, quickly checking out the rest of the basement. No protruding shoes, no gathering puddles of dark blood. He discovered the source of that fractured sound—the VOC filter. Swope went to check it out. The gunpowder smell grew stronger as he passed the workbench. It didn’t take him long to figure out what was wrong with the unit. Truax had shot it. Put an actual bullet into it. There was a small pile of dust on the floor. Other motes hovered. Swope looked around for some sort of switch but could see nothing.

  He went back to the workbench, careful not to touch anything. The box he’d seen from the stairs turned out to be a gun case. There were bullets. Cleaning equipment. Some sort of rag. But no gun. Swope wondered if he should call Chones. He could simply say that he’d come over to condole and found this mess. But if they arrested Truax then he might talk about what he’d been doing the past week. All sorts of awkward questions could arise. Best to let the man be for now. He’d report in. He wouldn’t do anything without Swope’s approval. Besides, Joel was in prison. Nobody was going to hurt him there.

  He went back upstairs, leaving everything the way he found it. He checked the garage—the Cutlass was gone. There was a glistening bruise of leaked oil on the swept concrete floor. Garden tools hung from hooks on a Peg-Board wall. A neat and orderly house. He remembered
Irma, standing at the top of the steps. The way she’d clutched him last night, as if she were drowning, too. He went back inside and climbed to the second floor, checking the master bedroom first. There were some clothes on the bed, an array of photos of Truax. Swope started down the hallway, knowing from schematics that there were two more bedrooms at the end of the hall. Irma was in the one on the left. Susan’s room. It had to be. Where this whole thing had started. There were posters and candles. Some sort of shining decals on the ceiling. She was on the bed, stretched out among a colony of stuffed animals. She stared at Swope, her eyes as glassy as those riveted into the dolls. Her skirt was hiked up above her knees—the loosened panty hose looked like a partially shed skin. Swope stared at her long, soft legs for a moment before meeting her eye.

  “I was looking for John.”

  “He had to work.”

  Swope nodded, as if this was the answer he’d expected. The insistent rumble of that ruined machine filtered through a grill beside the bed.

  “I came to see if you were all right,” he said softly. “If there was anything you needed.”

  Irma watched him without answering. Swope stepped into the room. The mirror above the dresser was flagged with curled snapshots. One of them showed Susan and Joel sitting by the Fogwood community pool. Teddy sat a few feet behind them, his eyes fixed on the entwined couple. Swope stepped to the edge of Susan’s bed. Irma stared up at him. Moist mascara shadowed her big eyes. A complicated odor rose from her. Perfume and booze and sweat. Swope moved a grinning elephant out of the way and sat. Her left leg was turned outward, revealing the soft curve of her knee.

  “I am so sorry, Irma,” he said. “I would give anything for this not to have happened.”

  “But it did.”

  “I know.”

  She closed her eyes and Swope could see her daughter in her. The way she was on those redwood planks. Her mouth slightly agape. The water draining off her into the invisible lake below, making a sound like rain.

  “If there’s anything …”

  Her eyes snapped open.

  “Our families,” she said hoarsely.

  “What about them?” Swope asked.

  “We were going to be friends. The Truaxes and the Swopes.”

  “We are friends.”

  “It will not be the same now.”

  “No. Not the same. But we can still be friends.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Not the same.”

  Swope knew he had to get out of here. The woman had lost her mind. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder and searched for some final words.

  “We’re friends, Irma,” was all he could come up with.

  He was just about to stand when she suddenly reached across her body with her left hand and grabbed his wrist. Her grip was as strong as a man’s. Though her long nails were digging painfully into his flesh, he let her hold on to him, his eyes moving back to the curve of her knee. Her nails dug harder into the soft flesh beneath his wrist. The skin would break soon if he didn’t do something. He looked back at her face just as her mouth fell open. Small mounds of lipstick clung to her teeth. Staring into her mouth Swope suddenly felt something come loose in him, the great reserve of terror and weakness he’d kept at bay these last hours. He bent over and their open mouths clamped together, Swope’s tongue lashing the sweet pulpy mass of hers. Her right hand flew up against his stomach so hard that it almost knocked the wind out of him. She began to tug awkwardly at his belt. He put his hand on her knee and then ran it up her thigh, making her nylon hose crackle. She shouted and pulled her head back. Swope grabbed the top her tights and yanked them down just as she freed his buckle. She tried to get his pants down but they were caught up on his erection. He stood and pulled them away, then moved back toward her.

  She released his wrists as he entered her and began to claw at the middle of his back, pulling outward, as if trying to peel away the flesh and muscle to expose his spine. He pumped into her with violent thrusts, causing the bed to shudder against the wall. Stacked animals tumbled onto them. She made a guttural noise every time he moved into her, a revving, continual moan. He came quickly but kept on pounding into her, pouring out the black dread. He didn’t look at her face because he didn’t want to see the girl’s face.

  He only stopped when he heard the doorbell. There was no telling how long it had been ringing. She continued to convulse up into him, stopping only when he tried to pull free, tightening her already powerful grip on his back. Her face was frozen in the same grimace he’d seen on the damaged pier.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Irma, let me go.”

  She looked at him in confusion.

  “People are here.”

  She released him. Swope stood quickly, causing the animals that had been leaning against him to tumble onto her. Unicorns and zebras and koalas. Downstairs, they were knocking. They’d try the handle next. Find it open.

  He had to get out of here.

  He paused in the bathroom to check himself, straightening his clothes and tie. He combed his hair with his fingers. There were a few long scratches on his wrist but they weren’t bleeding. He pulled his cuff over them, then switched off the light. The extractor fan continued to chug.

  There were hairy heads on the front porch. Four of them by the look of it. Sure enough, somebody was trying the handle. A few seconds longer and they would have been in. He skipped down the last few steps and yanked open the door. The press. Two of them, reporter and photographer. They stepped back when he appeared, startled. The reporter, a short man in a corduroy coat, clearly recognized him. For an instant Swope wondered if they could read what had just happened in his eyes, on his livid flesh. He quickly cast the idea aside. No one would ever know anything about him. Not unless he wanted them to.

  “May I help you gentlemen?”

  “Are the Truaxes in?” the short man asked.

  “And you are?”

  “Andy Ackerman. Baltimore Sun.”

  “We’ve spoken before, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, Mr. Swope.”

  “Look, you guys, the Truaxes aren’t going to be able to talk to anybody just yet. They’re pretty broken up. But they have asked me to make a statement.”

  Pages flipped and a pen clicked. Swope waited until he was ready. A quick image flashed through his mind, an overhead camera shot of him standing at the scene of some disaster—tornado or flood or the tangle of a 707—dealing coolly with the baying hounds of the press.

  “John and Irma Truax would like to thank everyone for their thoughts and best wishes at this difficult time. They would also like to say that they are sure the Cannon County authorities will act quickly and decisively to ensure that justice is done to the young man responsible for this horrible crime.”

  He paused. The reporter finished writing and looked up.

  “Mr. Swope, can you comment on Earl Wooten’s future at EarthWorks, given the current situation?”

  Swope considered mentioning Holmes’s letter, due to be delivered any minute. But he decided to let that be. The further he distanced himself from Wooten’s fate, the better.

  “Mr. Wooten’s future is no longer my responsibility.”

  He excused himself with a curt nod and strode right through the men. He had to get back to the office. He had a city to run.

  33

  They had his boy in chains. A heavy set of dull iron shackles that connected Joel’s wrists and ankles to his waist. When Wooten first saw the restraints he wanted to step over the dinky little courtroom fence and tear them off. It might take a few minutes and he would probably have to get his hands on some tools. Bolt cutters and maybe some needle-nosed pliers. But he could do it. They were, after all, only iron. Earl Wooten could take care of iron.

  But he did nothing. Instead, he continued to sit dutifully in the place McNutt had reserved for him in the front row. The lawyer was at the table directly in front of him, rustling papers and clearing his throat. Ardelia w
as on Wooten’s left, though she might just as well have been twenty miles away. They said nothing. They hadn’t exchanged a word since the bitter argument over Joel’s plea an hour earlier in McNutt’s office. Seeing his son chained up like this, Wooten wanted to reach out and take her hand, though he knew it would be as unresponsive as that poor dead girl’s.

  The courtroom was so bland that it was hard to imagine anyone’s fate could be decided here. The hardwood benches looked like pews. There were tall cloudy windows and the fake-lemon smell of furniture polish. Portraits of stern white men lined the walls. Bailiffs and clerks exchanged knowing, occasionally joking remarks, as if this were just another place to work, an insurance office or seed store. As everyone waited, McNutt would turn occasionally, his small hands gripping the fence separating them as he spoke. Though little more than two feet higher, it seemed greater than any wall Wooten had ever known. He refused to look at the seats filling up behind him. If there were friends back there they would understand his stillness. To the others he would not give the satisfaction of showing his face.

  And then his son was in the room, walking unannounced through the door just behind the empty jury box. He was flanked by two cops. The courtroom grew utterly silent as he shuffled toward the table, those ankle chains scraping the polished floor like unclipped claws. Although he had told himself to expect the worst, Wooten couldn’t believe how bad Joel looked. His eyes were puffy with sleeplessness, his hair a bedraggled mess. His broad shoulders were bowed by some great internal weight. His expression was one of utter bewilderment, like the face of a refugee fleeing civil war. McNutt stood to greet him. Joel looked at the lawyer as if he’d never seen the man before in his life, then turned to his parents. First Wooten, then Ardelia. His eyes remained blank. Nothing moved in them. Ardelia began to stir, looking like she was going to reach for him. But she caught herself, remembering how McNutt had told her she must remain perfectly still during the hearing. No histrionics, he’d said. Guided by the cops, Joel lowered himself into the chair beside the lawyer. Wooten stared at the back of his son’s head as it began to nod slowly forward, like that of a man falling asleep on a bus.