Fall from Grace

by L. R. Wright

  Alberg smoothed his hair, pulled in his gut, and tried not to let himself get depressed. It was so damned hot, though.

  He ran his hands over his cheeks and jaw and considered quitting the Force and growing a beard. His hair was getting thin on top, he was pretty sure. It had some gray in it, too. But that wasn’t noticeable, because his hair was blond. If he grew a beard, though, what color would it be? Blond? Gray? Or something else entirely? He kind of liked the idea that it would grow in a different color entirely.

  Yeah, he thought; he’d buy a boat, grow a red beard and retire. He’d spend his days sailing up and down the coast; wearing his new beard, a seaman’s hat and cutoffs. He’d be a character. People would write books about him.

  “Knock knock,” said Sid Sokolowski, peering around Alberg’s open door.

  With an effort, Alberg managed not to drop his hands, put his feet on the floor and try to look busy. “Come in,” he said.

  “How’re you doing with the evaluations?” said the sergeant, maneuvering his considerable bulk into the office.

  “Fine, fine,” said Alberg briskly. He pulled his glasses case out of his shirt pocket. “What’re you up to today, Sid?” he asked, peering at the pile of forms on his desk.

  “Couple of B and E’s,” said the sergeant. “Otherwise it’s pretty quiet.”

  “It’s the heat.” Alberg stood up, putting the glasses case back in his pocket. “I’m going into town, have a coffee, touch a few bases here and there.”

  “Staff,” said Sid Sokolowski, but Alberg was already out the door, heading for the reception area.

  “Staff,” said the sergeant, lumbering close at Alberg’s heels.

  “I’m going into town,” Alberg told Isabella, who was just hanging up the phone.

  “You want to look after this?” she said, handing him a piece of paper on which she’d scribbled a message.

  Alberg took it from her, held it at arm’s length. “A ‘death threat’?”

  “That’s what the man said.”

  “Here, Staff, I’ll do it,” said Sokolowski, his hand outstretched. “You better get at those evaluations, eh?”

  Alberg looked at him with dignity. “Of course, Sid. Of course I’ll get at them. Just as soon as I’ve dealt with”—he peered again at the piece of paper—“with Mr. Ferguson’s complaint.” He gave Sokolowski a beatific smile, and left.

  A few minutes later, Alberg drove off a gravel road, parked next to a pair of nonfunctioning gas pumps and climbed out of his car. He slammed the door, fanning at the cloud of dust created by his arrival. His skin was sore. It felt thin and insufficient, as if the sun were weakening it.

  Alberg thought about the RCMP volunteers who’d gone to Namibia. That kind of adventure, despite the heat of the African sun, would be good for a man, he thought. Therapeutic. He stood next to his car and looked around him. He felt the heat and listened to the grasshoppers, and he smelled the fragrance of dry grass—he might as well be in Africa, he thought, and wished passionately that he were. Adventure, that’s what I need, he thought; I need an adventure.

  There and then he decided to buy himself a sailboat. Right away. Right now. To hell with waiting until he retired.

  He walked toward the house, thinking about his boat. He might get a Grampian 26. Or possibly a San Juan 24. There was a nice-looking CS 27 for sale at the Secret Cove marina. Or maybe he should have an Alberg 30, he thought, smiling to himself; he lifted his head and found himself staring through glass at a woman, who was holding a watering can and staring back at him. He stopped, confused, his mind for a moment not registering the fact that he was looking through an entire wall made of glass. Then he saw that the woman was standing among a vast array of plants. The place was a greenhouse, then.

  A door slammed, and a man appeared from behind the building. He saw Alberg and shouted, “Get the hell off my property.”

  Alberg pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “Are you Herman Ferguson?” he said.

  “I’m the owner of this property, that’s who I am,” said the man, waving his arms. “And I want you the hell off it.” He was about five eight and a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and he wore jeans, a sleeveless white undershirt, somewhat grimy, and suspenders. His feet were clad in hiking boots.

  “I’m Staff Sergeant Alberg, Mr. Ferguson. From the RCM Police.”

  The man stopped waving his arms. “Well how the hell’s a person supposed to know that when you got no uniform on?” He added grumpily, “It’s about damn time you got here. Yeah, Ferguson, that’s me. Come around back here and see for yourself.”

  Alberg glanced again at the greenhouse. The woman was bent over, watering a small tree. He saw that all the plants were in pots, although the floor of the building seemed to be dirt. Behind the woman, a child entered from a doorway, through which Alberg could see that the building wasn’t a greenhouse after all. “Interesting house,” he said, but Ferguson had vanished. Just then he appeared again, around the corner, gesturing impatiently at Alberg.

  The back of the house looked normal. There were a few windows, and two doors. The place stood in a clearing that was covered with brown grass. About fifty feet away the trees began, sweeping up the incline, foresting the mountain.

  In the shade of the trees, near the house, was a small, windowless shed. Farther away but still in shade was a collection of wire pens, each about five feet square. In each pen was a pair of animals. Alberg didn’t know much about animals. But a couple of them were foxes. And there were some raccoons, everybody knew what raccoons looked like. And in one of the pens, double-wired, so the chinks were smaller, there were a few squirrels. And Jesus, he thought, monkeys, too, little monkeys.

  “Lookit this, just lookit this,” said Ferguson excitedly, and some spittle flew from his mouth. He gestured at the last pen, which was empty. Alberg looked. The wire had been cut, and the side of the pen pulled back. “I had two skunks in there,” said Ferguson.

  Alberg nodded. He saw that the guy was missing a couple of teeth.

  “Well what the hell are you gonna do about it?” said Ferguson.

  “I’m confused,” said the staff sergeant. “I thought somebody here had gotten a death threat.”

  “Me,” said Ferguson, banging his chest. “I got it. I got a death threat. Somebody did this here damage, and stole my skunks, and left me a note that threatens to kill me.”

  “Have you got permits for these animals?” said Alberg, watching the monkeys.

  “I gotta permit for every flamin’ one of them,” said Ferguson.

  Alberg sighed and wiped his forehead. He was being punished, he thought, for trying to avoid those evaluations.

  “Where’s the note?” he said.

  “Inside,” said Ferguson, heading for the house. “I’m layin’ a charge. Out of my way,” he said to the boy who pushed open the screen door just as Ferguson got to it. “This is the cops. I’m layin’ a charge. Out of my way, boy.” The boy backed away into the house.

  Alberg followed Ferguson through the door, across a hallway that stretched the length of the house, and into the kitchen, where the woman he’d seen through the glass wall stood with three children, looking at him curiously. “Hello,” he said, smiling at them. “My name’s Karl Alberg.”

  “I’m Annabelle,” said the woman. “This is Rose-Iris. And Camellia.” She glanced at the boy. “And Arnold,” she said, reaching out to rumple his hair.

  “Get out there, boy,” said Herman to his son, “and give those critters some water.”

  Arnold left, reluctantly.

  Annabelle leaned against one of the kitchen counters and crossed her arms. Her face was shiny with sweat—it was no cooler in here than it was outside. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a thick braid. She was wearing a sundress, and no shoes. Her daughters moved close to her; she put an arm around each of them.

  “Sit down,” she said to Alberg. “Would you like some iced tea?”

  “This ain’t no social c
all, Annabelle,” said her husband. “The man’s here on police business.”

  “I’d love some iced tea,” said Alberg gratefully, pulling out a kitchen chair. He and Ferguson sat down. “Okay. Tell me about it.” He glanced at Annabelle, who had put ice in a tall glass and was pouring tea from a glass pitcher she’d taken from the refrigerator.

  “Okay, right,” said Herman. “I went out to water them. Started with the far cage, saw it right away. The cage was broke, and the death threat was stuck in the wire, like,” he said, jabbing at the air. He reached behind him and snatched something from the top of an old buffet that stood against the wall. “Here. Take a look at that.”

  The envelope had Herman Ferguson’s name on the front. It had been torn open. Alberg pulled out the sheet of paper inside. The message, like the name on the envelope, had been put together from words cut out of magazines and newspapers. It read: “A RIGHTEOUS MAN REGARDETH THE LIFE OF HIS BEAST; BUT THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED ARE CRUEL.” Alberg looked dubiously at Ferguson. “You think this is a threat on your life?”

  “You’re damn right I do,” said Ferguson, with fervor. “And I know who left it there, too. You take this off and fingerprint it,” he said. “Then you take that old hag’s prints, and they’re gonna match up. You betcha.”

  “Herman,” said Annabelle. She set a glass down in front of Alberg. “You can’t go around slandering people like that,” she said. She went back to the counter, held out her arms, looking at Alberg, and drew her daughters near.

  “You shut up, there,” said Herman, his face turning red. He was straddling one of the kitchen chairs, clutching its back; the heel of his boot tapped the linoleum rapidly, in a nervous tic. “It’s her, all right. It’s that bloody woman that did it,” he said to Alberg.

  Alberg asked Annabelle for a plastic bag, into which he carefully slid the note and its envelope. Herman watched him, mollified. “Who are you talking about?” said Alberg.

  “That crazy old hag with all the cats,” said Herman. “She’s the one. She’ll do more, too, if she’s not locked up.”

  “Herman,” said Annabelle. She laughed.

  “Shut up,” Herman yelled. “I told you. Just shut up.”

  “Hey, hey,” said Alberg mildly. “Take it easy.” He lifted his glass and took a long drink. “It’s good,” he said, with a nod to Annabelle. Then he turned to Herman, who was muttering to himself, his heel still tapping the floor. “What’s this woman’s name?”

  “I don’t know what the hell her name is,” said Herman. “People like that, what the hell difference is it what their name is? She’s crazy. A crazy person. Pedals around town on that damn bike, talkin’ to herself. It’s a disgrace, to the whole damn town.”

  Annabelle rolled her eyes heavenward. She gave her daughters a gentle push. “Go on, you two. You’ve got things to do. Go attend to your chores.”

  They left the kitchen and Alberg heard them whispering in the hallway.

  “What makes you think she’s got anything to do with this?” he said to Ferguson.

  “I seen her lurkin’ around here,” said Herman. “Drivin’ her damn bike on that road out there.”

  “Once,” said Annabelle. “You only saw her once, Herman. She was going up to Erna’s, to buy a chicken.”

  “Besides,” said Ferguson, ignoring his wife, “she’s an animal freak, and we don’t got another one of those around here, as far as I know. Last winter I seen her attack some poor woman wearing a fur coat.”

  “What do you mean, ‘attack’?” said Alberg.

  “Screeched and yelled at her, hollered, jumped up and down.” Ferguson shook his head, disgusted. “Crazy. She’s a crazy person. And she’s after me, and I want her arrested.”

  Annabelle yawned and stretched her hands high above her head, arching her back. Then she padded across the room and sat down at the table with them. “She probably doesn’t even know about your animals,” she said to Herman.

  He stared at her, momentarily speechless. Then he said, “What the hell are you talking about? The whole damn town knows about my animals.” He turned to Alberg. “They’re the talk of the whole town, my animals are. Why, the paper’s gonna send somebody out here to do an article on my mini-zoo.” Suddenly, almost casually, he cuffed Annabelle on the side of the head. “Shut up, you don’t know anything.”

  “Hey,” said Alberg, grabbing Herman’s arm.

  Annabelle had grown very pale. “It’s all right, Mr. Alberg. I make him mad sometimes.” She pushed back her chair. “I’m going to water my garden.” She left the room, and Alberg heard the screen door creak as she pushed it open.

  He let go of Herman Ferguson’s arm.

  “She makes me mad,” said Ferguson sullenly. “She knows it, but she goes ahead and does it anyway.”

  Alberg stood up.

  “Can we get back to business, here?” Ferguson looked up at him plaintively.

  “We don’t have a hell of a lot of business to get back to,” said Alberg, and Ferguson got up, too, sputtering protests. Alberg looked down on him for a moment, liking it that he was taller and bigger than the other man. “That’s not a threat you got,” he said, heading for the door.

  “The hell it isn’t,” said Ferguson indignantly, trailing after him.

  Alberg pushed open the screen door. “Have those animals been inspected?”

  “Certainly they’ve damn been inspected!” said Ferguson. “The damn wildlife guy’s been here two, three times.”

  Alberg went down the steps, looking around for Ferguson’s wife, but he couldn’t see her. “I’ll check it out,” he said.

  Ferguson came through the doorway, the screen thwacking shut behind him. “Well what the hell are you gonna check out,” he said bitterly, “if I ain’t been threatened?”

  Alberg stopped and turned around. “Vandalism. Theft. Intimidation. That sound okay to you?”

  Ferguson frowned, uncertain, and rubbed vigorously at his thick black hair.

  “I’ll be in touch,” said Alberg. He rounded the corner. “Let me know,” he called out, “if it happens again.” He was pretty sure that it would.

  Chapter 2

  WARREN KETTLEMAN SAW his life as a horizon, and his worries as clouds upon it, and his aim, the thing toward which he struggled, that which he would have called nirvana, was to be able to gaze at that horizon and see it clean, clear and pale, uncluttered by so much as a wisp of cloud. If he had ever accomplished this he might well have felt that it was a consummate achievement; he might well have promptly, quietly, and with intense satisfaction shut down all systems and, utterly fulfilled, died.

  Which would have been a big shock to Wanda, because Warren was a husky, healthy guy who, having just turned twenty-nine, had a lot of years ahead of him.

  He awoke this Monday morning fifteen minutes before his alarm was set to go off, which is to say, at five-fifteen.

  Warren turned onto his back. The fan purred from the top of the dresser, and daylight edged the window blind. Warren and Wanda were covered only by a sheet. Warren, staring at the window blind, thought about his wife’s thin brown body. The blind moved slightly, fingered by a breeze. It was going to be another very hot day.

  Warren started to go through his worries; nervously, skillfully, ritualistically—like a cardsharp shuffling a deck. This was something he did every morning and again at night, just before he went to sleep. He believed in naming his enemies, and looking them straight in the eye.

  There was always money to worry about, of course. Warren knew he’d never have enough money. He and Wanda both earned a decent salary. Compared with lots of people, they lived a comfortable life. But Warren wanted them to have a lot of money. He craved RSP’s, and CSB’s, and GIC’s—anything that smacked of savings. Wanda got impatient with him about this. She was frugal, too, most of the time, but every so often she wanted to do something extravagant. This caused Warren to break out in a cold sweat. What if one day he couldn’t dissuade her, and she used up a
ll her recklessness in one fell swoop, and spent all the money they had on a Mercedes? Or, worse—on something that couldn’t be sold? He didn’t know what. He just had visions of all their money disappearing.

  He turned onto his side and looked at Wanda’s shoulder. He touched it with his tongue and tasted salt. He glanced at the clock, then moved closer to Wanda, and pressed his erection against her buttocks. Wanda gave a little moan but it turned out to be a moan of protest. She pulled away from him and in her sleep flung off the sheet. Warren propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her, small and brown and shiny, except for the parts covered by her swimsuit when she sunbathed, which was every chance she got. These parts weren’t big enough, as far as Warren was concerned. He lay down again.

  Money. Annabelle. Annabelle was a worry, too, but that worry was something that was never going to change and never going to go away, either. It was something he’d learned to live with, he told himself. Although every once in a while he felt a great surge of bitterness toward his sister. He envied her, even though her life was such a total mess, and it was his envy that made him bitter.

  Money. Annabelle. And now, Bobby Ransome. Bobby loomed large among Warren’s worries, these days. But then he’d always loomed large in Warren’s life—and Warren had always been surprised about this, because theirs was a sideways relationship that had never felt important until later.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there looking down at the rag rug and bewilderment flooded him.

  He switched off the alarm, stood up, quietly got clothes from the closet and his dresser drawer, and went to the bathroom to shower.

  When he got home from work he took cheese and a can of beer from the fridge and crackers from the cupboard and sat at the kitchen table, sipping, munching, listening to a soft-rock music station on the radio. Then he put his dishes in the sink and started in on his current project. These days he was applying aluminum siding, white, to the garage. He’d never done this kind of work before so he was proceeding slowly and methodically, learning as he went. When he’d finished the garage, he planned to start in on the house.