Ashes Of America

by Fergus McNeill

  ‘I’ll have the whole damned family here, all wanting to help me,’ she sighed, her shoulders slumping. ‘I can’t have you around. I can’t keep up that kind of an act.’

  He saw the despair in her face, and nodded foolishly. He’d lost her, but she’d lost everyone.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do…’ he offered. More empty words.

  She moved towards the door.

  ‘You know what I want you to do.’

  The sun was setting as he stepped outside, casting a red-golden glow over the front yard and the quiet street beyond. Beth stood like a statue on the porch as he walked down the path, but turned away when he looked back over his shoulder, going in and pulling the door shut behind her.

  He didn’t blame her. She was tougher than he’d ever guessed, but this was her whole life being turned upside down. And it was all on him.

  Standing there, alone in the long shadow of the house, Frank bowed his head then strode away towards his car.

  4

  It was still warm, and the window of Kirkland’s office was jammed open, bringing the sounds of late-night traffic on Main Street, and vague snatches of laughter from the malt shop on the corner. Frank stared at the line of framed police commendations on the wall, below a smaller frame that held an Army Soldier’s Medal, proudly displayed on a bed of black velvet.

  Kirkland didn’t trust him.

  The chief liked to think he knew everything about everyone, but those long gaps in Frank’s military record had burned his curiosity and made him suspicious. He’d never liked Frank: late once too often, drunk once too often, insubordinate way too often…

  And now there was this.

  ‘So that’s it?’ Kirkland shifted, causing his chair to creak. For a big man, he was still in good shape, with a bull neck and a crew cut, though his scowling face bore a slight sheen of perspiration. ‘That’s all you’ve got to say?’

  Frank kept his face carefully blank. It had been hard, explaining the day’s events to the chief, and harder still to do it without mentioning his morning at Beth’s, but she’d been through enough already.

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry ain’t gonna cut it, Frank. A man’s dead, don’t you get that? A fellow officer is dead, and you sit there acting like it’s no big deal?’ He paused for breath, glaring across the desk, almost inviting a reaction. ‘Damn it all, he should never have been down there in the first place, but to wind up naked in some girl’s room…’

  He shook his head, as if the whole thing was too offensive to discuss further.

  Frank sat completely still, his eyes studying the objects on Kirkland’s desk: cigar box, heavy glass ashtray, brass nameplate, a sturdy-looking pen. He sensed it wasn’t time for him to speak just yet.

  After a moment, Kirkland leaned forward a little.

  ‘You talked to the Newton County boys,’ he said. ‘Did any of them know this waitress?’

  ‘No,’ Frank explained. ‘She just arrived in town a few weeks ago.’

  Kirkland slumped back in his chair, an oddly petulant action for a man of his bearing.

  ‘So how the hell did Pete end up in her room,’ he demanded, ‘when you sent him to do your job at the Skordeno factory?’

  Frank caught the accusing tone, but gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to it.

  ‘Sheriff Carson thinks maybe there was something going on between them,’ he replied. ‘But he’s just casting round for ideas. He doesn’t know anything.’

  Kirkland frowned.

  ‘Well, if you find a naked man in a woman’s bedroom, it sure seems like a possibility to me.’ He trailed off for a moment, then looked hard at Frank. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You knew Pete. You worked with him, got on with him…’ Kirkland was watching him intently now. ‘Any… trouble at home? Things okay with his wife?’

  Behind his careful expression, Frank smoldered, wishing he could punch his superior in the face.

  ‘I knew them both,’ he said, then paused, aware of the line he was about to cross. Lying like this was serious, but the truth would nail him to the wall if it ever came out. He was already damned, no matter what he did now. ‘They always seemed happy enough to me. I don’t think they had any… problems.’

  ‘So you don’t think…?’

  ‘I don’t think Pete was fooling around with the waitress,’ Frank finished for him. ‘No, sir.’

  Kirkland looked doubtful.

  ‘Well,’ he said, reaching across the desk to open the cigar box, ‘that doesn’t change the mess we’re left with, now does it? When folks find out about it, they’re still gonna think something sordid was going on.’

  ‘Sheriff Carson seemed keen to spare any unnecessary embarrassment,’ Frank noted. ‘I think he’ll be… discreet.’

  Kirkland struck a match and proceeded to light a short cigar, watching him through the flame.

  ‘Well, I guess that’s something... for the widow, anyway.’ He blew a cloud of thick grey smoke, snuffing out the match. ‘Small comfort for Pete Barnes, though.’

  Frank lowered his eyes.

  What had Pete been doing? Why was he in that room? Pete certainly didn’t have what it took to pick up women. Hell, he didn’t even have what it took to hold on to his wife.

  ‘So, you’ve talked all around it, but you still haven’t told me.’

  Frank looked up. Kirkland was staring at him, his expression suddenly calm, which was somehow more disconcerting than seeing the man angry.

  ‘Told you what, sir?’

  ‘Told me why Pete was down there. Instead of you.’

  Frank felt himself tensing, but willed his shoulders to relax and stay loose.

  ‘I asked him if he’d go,’ he replied. ‘He was okay about it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go? Mary Cantell asked for you by name, didn’t she?’

  Frank stared at him.

  ‘When I spoke to you on the phone this morning, you said you had an errand.’ Kirkland took a long drag on his cigar. ‘What was so important you couldn’t do your damn job?’

  Frank took a breath. Just stay calm, keep it simple.

  ‘I wasn’t feeling so good this morning,’ he said. ‘I just figured–’

  ‘You were sick this morning?’

  ‘Well, maybe a–’

  ‘What kind of sick, Frank? Hangover kind?’

  Frank’s head snapped up, but the sharp denial died in his throat, and he remained silent. Better that Kirkland believe that than to have him dig deeper and learn the truth.

  ‘Yeah, I thought so.’ Kirkland reached over and set his cigar in the groove of the ashtray. ‘As of right now, you’re suspended, Frank. Without pay.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, you heard me just fine.’ He jabbed an angry finger towards Frank. ‘I want you out of here, till I figure out what to do with your sorry ass.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Hell, you’re lucky I don’t wash you out right now… or lock you up.’

  Frank rose to his feet, his chair scraping backwards over the wooden floor as he stood glaring down.

  But Kirkland didn’t flinch.

  ‘I don’t know what you were in the war,’ he growled. ‘But you sure didn’t learn much about following orders… or having your friend’s back.’

  Frank’s fists clenched by themselves, but he managed to fight down the dreadful urge to hit Kirkland.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’ he said through his teeth.

  ‘Just get out, Frank.’ Kirkland regarded him with disgust. ‘Go home and have yourself another drink. It don’t matter if you feel rough in the morning; you got no place you need to be for a while.’

  Frank stood on the sidewalk outside police headquarters for some time, not sure what to do next. Gazing up into the gloom, his thoughts turned to Beth, to the kind of angry lovemaking that might numb two people’s pain, if only for a little while. But he knew they couldn’t comfort each other. Not now, not
after this.

  Frowning, he turned to look down the street. His patrol car was parked there and he still had the keys in his pocket. Glancing briefly back at the department building, he decided to take it. He was too tired to walk home, and anyway, screw them.

  The steady growl of the engine relaxed him as he drove through the town, and there was something soothing about the succession of brightly-lit signs and storefronts slipping by in the darkness. It was almost midnight, and he hadn’t eaten all day, but the drive-in on East 20th would still be open, and he was in no hurry to get home. He glanced in the mirror, then made a left turn.

  When you’ve known what it is to be hungry, you always eat.

  Bumping the car over the railroad crossing, he stared out at the road, wondering about Pete, about how much he’d known, or suspected. Hopefully nothing; let the poor man rest in peace.

  He sighed. Ahead of him, the tall sign at Dezzie’s Drive-In shone out against the night sky. Turning off into the parking lot, he pulled in under the bright lights and rolled his window down to order a steak burger and a soda.

  Sitting there, waiting for his food, his thoughts drifted to the missing waitress, Faye Griffith. What was her involvement in all this, and where was she now? No doubt the Newton County boys would bring her in, sooner or later… but would she be wearing handcuffs or a body-bag when they did?

  He looked up as the car-hop girl brought his order out and fixed the tray on the window for him.

  ‘Can I get you anything else, mister?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’ Conscious that Kirkland had stopped his pay, he deliberately tipped her extra, then settled back in his seat and took a sip of his drink. As she walked away, his eyes swept the parking lot. A few yards to his left, a station wagon had pulled up – just another young couple at the end of their evening, some hair-creamed kid in a plaid shirt, driving his parents’ car. The girl in the passenger seat was pretty, though, with wavy blonde hair and a pink polka-dot dress. As her boyfriend looked away to place their order, she glanced across at Frank. Seeing him watching her, she pursed her glossy red lips slightly, then gave him a faint smile.

  Frank turned away and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired.

  He parked the patrol car at the side of the house, got out and stretched wearily. The air was cooler now, and he gazed up at the clear night sky for a moment, then yawned and went inside.

  The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he walked through to the kitchen and switched on the light, blinking at the sudden brightness. Setting his hat down on the counter, he took out his badge and looked at it for a moment, before placing it on the table. Then, he reached down and unholstered his .38, idly flipping the cylinder open and emptying out the six shells onto the table.

  Kirkland wasn’t messing around this time – the chief might cut you some slack when it suited him, but this was different and Frank knew it. He was on the outside now, and it would be a long road back.

  Straightening up, he walked over to the cupboard by the sink, taking out a half bottle of bourbon and finding a clean glass. Screw Kirkland.

  He took the last couple of cubes from the tray in the icebox, then poured himself a drink and switched the radio on. As the set warmed up, a newscaster’s voice rose to speak in serious tones about the challenges facing US peacekeeping troops in the harsh climates of northern Russia, and the latest death tolls from Korea. Frank sighed.

  What was the point of winning if the war didn’t finish when you won?

  Gathering up his badge, bullets and gun, he carried them over and dumped them into the kitchen drawer, slamming it firmly shut. Then he picked up his drink and wandered through to the den.

  The room was sparsely furnished and none too tidy. Somehow he’d never quite got around to properly unpacking and there seemed little point now. He straightened the place out now and again, but only really made an effort when he brought women back… and that wasn’t very often. Beth had been here just once – he could still see the uneasy expression on her face as she’d slipped her dress down – and they’d always met at hers after that.

  Sitting down heavily on the couch, he tipped a couple of magazines onto the floor to reveal a half-full ashtray lying hidden on the coffee table. Leaning back, he lit a cigarette and sipped his bourbon, while the voice of the newscaster droned on in the kitchen.

  A little after 1am, he got stiffly to his feet, switched everything off, and made his way through to the bedroom. Kicking off his shoes, he yawned, then undid the buckle on his holster, ready to drape it over the corner of the bed frame as he did every night. Seeing it empty now, he paused for a moment, thoughtful.

  It should have been me.

  Turning slowly, he went over to the heavy wooden closet. Opening both the doors wide, he squatted down, and hauled out the large army-green duffel bag he kept stowed there beneath his clothes – everything that really mattered, always ready to go – a nervous habit from his time in Europe that he’d never quite shaken off.

  Unzipping the bag, he reached down the side of it and drew out a towel-wrapped bundle, which he unfolded to reveal his old .45 automatic. Checking the clip was full, he pulled back the slide to chamber a round, then walked over and placed the gun on the nightstand.

  It should have been me.

  5

  It had rained through the weekend, with dark skies that threatened storms, but now things were clearing up again, and this morning was uncomfortably bright. Frank swallowed the last of his cold coffee, then set the empty cup on the kitchen table. Reaching up to rub his eyes, his hand brushed across the unfamiliar roughness of his cheek.

  Today was the day. And he’d have to clean himself up, sooner or later.

  Pushing the chair back, he got stiffly to his feet and stretched, then padded slowly through to the bathroom. Bracing himself with his hands on the sides of the basin, he leaned forward until he was just inches from the mirror. A hollow man stared back at him. The eyes were the worst thing – dark and sunken – but his whole face looked ragged, like some boxcar hobo. A thick layer of untidy stubble covered his jaw, marking the days since Kirkland had kicked him out.

  Sighing, he reached for his shaving brush and ran it under the faucet, then dipped it into the soap and started to work up a lather.

  The past few days had become blurred, indistinct. He hadn’t appreciated the subtlety of Kirkland’s punishment at the time, but denying him the distraction of work had forced him to dwell on what he’d done, and the guilt had wrapped itself around him like a noose.

  So he’d become what Kirkland believed he was; he’d gone to the liquor store, and he’d drank until things were bearable again.

  Frank shut his eyes briefly, then straightened up to face his reflection, smoothing the lather along his jawline and working it in.

  Sleeping through the empty days… restless nights spent prowling the house or driving aimlessly around town… how quickly he’d slipped back into that old darkness. It was like those first months after he’d come back from the war: suddenly robbed of purpose, an outsider in his home town, defined only by regret.

  Lifting his chin, he turned his face to one side, and started to draw the razor over his skin.

  He’d wanted to see Beth, of course. He’d driven by her place one night, and stared up at the light in her bedroom window, but what was the use? She’d be imprisoned by her family now, a tight little huddle of relatives making sure she didn’t get a moment’s peace.

  He paused, wondering if maybe that was easier on her. No time to think, no time to dwell on anything…

  He didn’t know how she was; there’d been no word from her, no contact at all. He’d only found out about the funeral arrangements from Louie at the department, and part of him wished he hadn’t. Still, it was a reason to get a hold of himself, smarten himself up.

  He finished shaving and toweled off his face, then walked through to the bedroom. Opening the closet, he ran his hand across the hanging clothes, then hesitated.

  S
hould he wear his police uniform?

  He was suspended, and Kirkland would likely be there, along with half the department, no doubt. But what were they going to do? Make a scene at the graveside?

  Nodding grimly to himself, Frank reached into the closet and lifted his uniform jacket off the rail.

  He drove out of town, following the road north as it cut across open fields and skirted the edge of small woods, always climbing. Before long, he rounded a bend and lifted his foot off the gas; ahead of him, cars lined the side of the road and he slowed down, pulling in behind the last of them, then shutting off the engine. Getting out, he stood up and straightened his uniform before looking up the line. There had to be twenty vehicles here, but a police funeral would be well-attended.

  Frank sighed. Pete was a nice enough guy, but until now he’d never thought of him as mattering very much. Staring grimly at the line of cars, he wondered how many of them would be here if it was his funeral.

  Glancing at his watch, he started walking along the road. A few yards in front of him, a thin man in a blue suit was leaning against a smart-looking grey Chrysler, smoking a cigarette. He nodded respectfully as Frank passed, acknowledging the uniform.

  The cemetery occupied a long stretch of open ground, bordered by trees. It fell away gently from the roadside, a grassy slope dotted with headstones and memorials, many of them recent-looking, additions from the war. The mourners were gathered in a broad arc – sombre faces and sombre clothes – around a neatly-dug pit. He walked slowly down, picking his way carefully between the grave plots, to stand on the edge of the group.

  Before long, the black cars arrived, and a hush fell as people turned their heads. Staring back up the slope, Frank watched as the family members made their way down. He knew some of them – Pete’s little brother, helping his mom over the uneven ground; Beth’s uncle, dignified and sad…

  And then he saw her, dressed in a plain black dress, with a black jacket and hat. Beth didn’t look his way, walking stiffly to the grave, supported by her younger sister. The priest, an elderly man with a kindly face and tidy white hair, went over to say something to her, then turned towards the mourners.