Scorch City

by Toby Ball

  Frings watched as the police fanned out around the room and caught the instinctive postures of self-defense taken by the Negroes at the sight of truncheons. A group of three cops headed toward his table; two uniforms led by a guy built like a fire hydrant in a suit showing sweat stains under the arms. Frings stepped forward to meet them, trying to head them off before they got to Renate and, especially, Carla.

  The cop in the suit was aggressive from the start, getting into Frings’s space, making him work to hold his ground.

  “Where is he?”

  Frings was a couple of inches taller, but the cop probably had him by forty hard pounds. “Who’s that?”

  “Don’t fuck with me.”

  Frings stared back hard at the cop. No way this gink was going to get physical with a top newspaper guy out in public like this.

  The cop leaned in closer and spoke slowly, seething. “Where’s Mel Washington? You were meeting with him. Where’d he go?”

  Frings kept the stare but didn’t like the look that got in the cop’s eyes, as if something was switching off—or on.

  The cop grabbed Frings’s open collar and pulled him closer and down, so that their foreheads were nearly touching. From the periphery, Frings caught a glimpse of Renate making a move toward him, a cop blocking her way. Carla was shouting something.

  The cop said, “Don’t make this difficult. We will find him. No reason for you to go down, too.” Sweat was pouring off the cop’s crimson face.

  Frings held his ground. “Don’t make things difficult on yourself. Do you know who I am? I’ll have your name all over the front page of the Gazette. Harassment.”

  The cop gave an ugly smile. “Your paper’s making a habit of that.”

  “What’s your name?” Carla yelled at the cop.

  He ignored her. “Last time. Where’s. Mel. Washington?”

  “I don’t know, and if you don’t get away from me, I will make trouble for you. You got that? What’s your name?”

  “You’re not going to be able to hide behind your paper, you commie fuck. Look over there. You don’t think I know Carla Bierhoff? Red Carla? You’re here meeting with two of the biggest Reds in the goddamn City. Sharing drinks. We’ve had our eye on you for a while, Frings. A long fucking while, and it looks like maybe your true color is showing: Red.”

  Frings wondered about the “we” who’d had their eyes on him. The police?

  Carla was still yelling for the detective’s name.

  The cop snorted. “My name? Why the fuck not? It’s Grip. Torsten Grip.” He looked to Frings with an ugly smile. “I’ll check the paper tomorrow.”

  Renate trembled against Frings in the backseat of a cab. Frings’s thoughts came fast—what did this manhunt for Washington mean? Washington claimed that he hadn’t been involved with the attacks by the Uhuru Community ginks, and this seemed right to Frings. Other people could take care of the Community’s hard stuff.

  The City lights, so often a source of inspiration to Frings, tonight seemed merely ghoulish. As they passed through neighborhood after fatigued neighborhood, Renate stroked his arm.

  He’d balled it up; missed his opportunity. He should have seen it coming, written the story while he had a chance instead of chasing Ed Wayne. The police had taken control of the Community-assaults story, and it wasn’t going to play out as rogue cop assaults law-abiding citizens and buries the investigation. Instead, the story would be violent Uhuru Community thugs assault off-duty policeman.

  He wondered where Art Deyna was.

  65.

  It was cooler up in the hills on the winding, rutted road headed to Fort Deposit, Prosper Maddox’s hometown. Coming from the City, Westermann was surprised by how full the country seemed, even in the absence of people and anything man-made. He’d stopped earlier at a bend in the road high above a winding, river-carved valley, listening to the wind as it swayed the tops of huge evergreens; a vast sound. A sound on a different scale from anything he had heard in the City.

  Now the road followed a river dotted with a scattering of crude shacks—shelter and not much else. Some lacked windows. None, Westermann presumed, had plumbing. He wondered idly how these people made their living. This wasn’t farmland and the mines were still miles off.

  The country was liberating, even if he was only away from the City for a couple of days. Leaving had been hectic and, in the end, unnerving. Grip had shown up with his eyes red and swollen from exhaustion. Ed Wayne had apparently taken a beating down by the Uhuru Community, and Grip had stayed on into the night to search for Mel Washington, who, for some reason, was thought to be involved. Westermann had played this news cool; not asking questions. But Grip had gone on, relating his confrontation with Frings, joking that he hadn’t seen his name in the paper that morning.

  Westermann had hovered on the edge of panic. Grip had made the connection between Washington and Frings.

  Washington and Frings.

  The true location of Lenore’s corpse.

  Grip.

  Deyna.

  If there had been any doubt about his decision to leave for Fort Deposit, this news had cemented his plan. He needed to get away, get some breathing room; let Frings take the heat for a while.

  Westermann thought about this as he descended the switchbacks into the steep valley that hid Fort Deposit.

  Fort Deposit was a mining town. The main street ran parallel to a fast-flowing river, and ramshackle houses on perpendicular roads crawled up the side of the encompassing hills in uneven columns. These dwellings were better, perhaps, than the shanties in the Uhuru Community, but the poverty here was clear. Westermann drove down the main street, looking for the police station. The buildings looked old, battered; paint peeling, letters missing from signs, doors hanging crooked. He counted three bars, three churches, a butcher, a grocer’s, a general store of sorts, town hall, a diner, and a handful of other businesses identified only by the owner’s name, the merchandise obscure. Dusty and rusted cars were parked along the street. Two women in drab clothes carried sacks of groceries toward a truck.

  Westermann parked in front of the police department, which shared a wall with a barbershop on the far edge of town. Inside, he found a broad-shouldered cop in uniform sitting behind a desk, reading a newspaper. He looked up and seemed quite surprised to see someone that he didn’t recognize.

  “Can I help you?”

  Westermann showed his badge, explained who he was. “I’m doing some background work on a case, just wanted to check in, let you know I was in town.”

  The cop looked as if he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “You’re doing background work on a City crime out here? In Fort Deposit?” Westermann nodded. “Is the chief around?”

  The chief was not around, but the cop behind the desk was able to find him after a couple of phone calls.

  “He’s coming,” the cop said.

  Westermann decided to wait outside, resting his hat beside him on the wooden bench in front of the barbershop. Afternoon shadows were beginning to reach across the road toward him, but the bench was still in the sun. A breeze blew from the west, and for the first time in weeks Westermann felt comfortable outdoors, maybe even a little cool.

  A couple of old-timers—gaunt men with sunken cheeks and hard eyes—shuffled by, nodding in silent greeting to Westermann. They walked with a forward bend, as if they were shipping heavy packs. Their arms, though, were still roped, and one had crude blue tattoos on both forearms. They passed silently into the barber’s, the opening of the door triggering a bell that announced their presence.

  A young man in police uniform strode down the street toward him. Westermann stood, ready for this kid to take him to the chief, and was surprised when the kid introduced himself.

  “Chief McIlvaine,” he said, extending a hand. “I have to admit that I didn’t catch your name when Loughlin in there called.”

  “Westermann.” Westermann took the hand. “Lieutenant Westermann. Call me Piet.”

  “Th
en you’d best call me Mac. Christian name’s Douglas, but with a last name like McIlvaine …”

  “That’s fine,” Westermann said, not sure what else to say to that. “I’m up here doing some background on an investigation I have going in the City.”

  “Prosper Maddox?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Come on, let’s go and talk down by the river.”

  Westermann followed McIlvaine down the block and then to the right as they followed an abbreviated dirt road to a kind of boat launch leading to the river. Ducks swam slowly, dunking their heads and then shaking off the water. Waterbugs danced on the surface. McIlvaine led Westermann to a bench just off the river.

  “It’s better down here,” McIlvaine said. “The view’s one of the few benefits of living in Fort Deposit. No reason to deprive you of it.”

  It was beautiful. The water was crystalline, the rocks clearly visible under the surface, and on the far side the reflections of the trees on the opposite bank were brilliant.

  “So,” Westermann said, “Prosper Maddox.”

  “Yeah, I figured. Not that there’s anything wrong with him, as far as I know. He was up and gone before I took this job. But everyone here knows Maddox and everyone has an opinion on him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  McIlvaine scratched at his temple. “This is a dying town, Piet. There’s a coal mine a bit up the road that used to provide for the people here. But too many people moved in and the vein wasn’t what they’d hoped it was. I mean, just look around. You saw it coming in.

  “Well, Maddox saw this early on. Saw that there wasn’t a future here for people. So he led his flock away. Took them to the City. Some people, they thought it was the best thing that could have happened. Fewer people without work. And Maddox’s people were kind of at the bottom of the heap here, if you know what I mean. Other people, though, they weren’t so happy about it, having family or friends just taken away. Homes abandoned, and all of a sudden at that; left to just fall down. And then there were the people who’d split with his church.”

  “How’s that?” Westermann asked.

  “I don’t know the details. Before my time. But maybe ten years ago, something like that, Maddox’s church split into two groups. His group stuck around for a while but they ended up in the City. The other group, they’re still here. You want to find out more about Maddox, you’d probably want to talk to them.”

  “Okay. But what can you tell me? How was he while he was here? You must have heard stories at least.”

  “I really don’t know too much about him. See, Lieutenant, there are two kinds of people in this town—people who go to church at night and people who go to bars. I think you know who gets most of my time. You want to find out about Maddox, you should talk to the people at the Holiness Church.”

  “The Holiness Church?”

  “Yeah, that’s Maddox’s original church. He’s not the most popular guy there, but there are some people who could give you a little more insight. Some might even be objective.”

  “So where do I find the Holiness Church?”

  “Oh, I’ll show you when we get back up to Main Street. They’ll be starting worship up around seven, I’d guess.”

  Westermann looked at him. “On a Thursday?”

  McIlvaine laughed. “The Holiness Church doesn’t take too many days off. But then again, neither does the Lord.” He shot Westermann a wink.

  66.

  Frings waited at a window table in the diner where he’d had a coffee with Ellen Aust the previous day. He wasn’t sure what to expect from her. He’d come here instead of meeting her on the street, giving her some room; letting her make the move if she wanted to continue to talk. Either she’d want to or she wouldn’t. It didn’t make a difference how aggressively he pursued it.

  A couple of older men sat at the counter talking about the horses while Frings sipped his coffee and watched the ladies walk by on the sidewalk. A man in shirt and tie, his hair slicked back with sweat, paused by the window and plastered a sign against the pane, the glue spreading out under the pressure. Frings could see through it from the back. TRUFFANT FOR MAYOR.

  He was giving Ellen until a quarter past the hour and then he’d split. He didn’t have to wait nearly that long.

  Ellen looked different today; wearing makeup, he thought. Her dress was nicer, too, though still maid-wear. She must have seen him through the window because she made straight for his table. Frings held up a finger for another coffee and stood up to greet her.

  When they were sitting, Ellen said, “I’d like to apologize for yesterday. You caught me by surprise.”

  Frings shook his head. “Please, I should apologize to you for showing up like that; no warning.”

  She smiled, keeping her lips tight to hide her teeth. “Dr. Maddox, he tells us to be wary and vigilant in the world; that the Trickster comes in many guises and holds sway over many people. But I know you, Frank. I know you from before and I believe I can trust you.”

  Frings smiled.

  “And I think maybe there are things you’d want to know. Is this going to be in the newspaper?” This last bit seemed to worry her.

  Frings shook his head. “Not if you don’t want it to be. Ellen, depending on what I hear, I might want to find out more from other people. I’ll have to see. You don’t need to worry about your name or your words being printed, though.”

  She thought about this, staring down into her coffee. “It’s not just being in the paper, Frank.”

  Frings sensed her quandary, was surprised that she was willing to talk to him. She had her congregation and little else besides. No good could come out of talking to Frings about it; potentially some bad. There must be a reason she wanted to talk. There must be something she needed to tell him. He decided to wait her out, let her take it at her speed. He sipped his coffee.

  She lifted her eyes to Frings, looking decisive. “I think Dr. Maddox is troubled.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Understand that he is a man of God, Frank; that he concerns himself with holy things. But he’s under so much pressure, he’s been distracted, even withdrawn. It’s not just me that sees it, neither. He’s drawing into himself, nurturing his relationship with the Lord while he ignores this life. But that’s not it, or at least not all of it. He fasts and prays in seclusion all day, then comes out and preaches for four, five hours at a time.”

  “What about?”

  Her eyes were fatigued, terrified. “Enemies. Enemies of the church. The police come into our neighborhood now, almost every night. That never used to happen. Dr. Maddox says that they are watching us, seeing if we are making preparations for the Last Days. He says that our enemies watch us from the abandoned buildings around our neighborhood; that they stalk the perimeter at night. We pray, sometimes nearly all night, for them to be driven away. But every night Dr. Maddox says that they are still out there.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “I’m scared. The police are in our neighborhood all the time now. They never used to be. People don’t leave the neighborhood after dark; don’t even walk in the neighborhood alone after dark.”

  Frings nodded.

  Ellen shrugged and Frings could see the debate that played out in her mind between her respect for Prosper Maddox’s authority and insight and her own common sense.

  Frings pushed. “What is it? What do you want to tell me?”

  Ellen’s face flushed. “We are living in the Last Days, Frank. It’s happening right now.” Her voice was urgent. “Dr. Maddox says all the signs are there, and the Antichrist, he is among us.”

  “Among us?”

  “Here. The City. Dr. Maddox had studied prophecy and prayed and it was revealed to him that Father Womé is the Antichrist.”

  Frings blinked twice, shook his head. “Father Womé?”

  “Yes! Christ is returning, Frank, and you are not saved.”

  67.

  Evening began to fa
ll as Grip walked, mind wandering, toward Ed Wayne’s apartment. Heat lightning lit the sky in uneven bursts. In his left hand he carried a bottle of whiskey, still in its liquor-store bag. In his right he had his desk flask of whiskey and he sipped on it frequently as he tried to make sense of that afternoon.

  He’d been in a shit mood all day because he’d spent the previous night in the search for goddamn Mel Washington and had only caught a couple of hours of sleep. They hadn’t found him either, though Grip had been sure they’d come close. Most likely at the Palace, but they hadn’t been able to find the hiding place. Grip had made a note to find a reason to toss the place sometime in the future; pay back Floyd Christian for playing coy with them all night. That goddamn Frings wasn’t any better, though Grip knew that getting in a pissing match with a reporter wouldn’t do his career much good, or the lieut’s for that matter. The Chief liked the force to keep a good image in the press, and the lieut had already balled that up once.

  So he’d been in a shit mood and the lieut had headed out of town, and Morphy had been a son of a bitch all day, hassling Grip about everything. Jesus.

  By the time he arrived at Ed Wayne’s building, he was half in the bag; drunk enough that he almost missed the skull-and-top-hat graffiti, not quite washed off Wayne’s door. Almost. He stared at it for a moment, feeling the hollowness in his gut. Wayne’s wife answered the door. She was pretty well fancied up, for her. She’d probably been receiving visitors all day. Grip smiled at her drunkenly, noticing why Wayne must like her; the generous body, a cute, girl’s face. One thing, drunk or not, he was glad to be out of that hall.

  She smiled back at him, took the bottle of whiskey that Grip had forgotten he was holding, and showed him back to the living room where Wayne was half-sitting on the couch, awash in bandages.

  “Torsten,” he said, and Grip could tell Wayne was drunk, too.

  “Jesus, Ed. You look like hell.” Grip couldn’t quite evoke the cheeriness necessary to make it sound like anything other than an honest appraisal.