Happy Policeman (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Inside the rec center a battalion of Torku stood guard. Seresen ordered DeWitt to a rear meeting room. Hubert Foster was sitting there.

As DeWitt entered, the banker’s eyes widened. He popped up from his seat. “What happened to you? Is this the trouble you were talking about? Who hit you?” Foster sounded not only upset but angry. He took hold of DeWitt’s chin and examined his bleeding head. “Don’t move, Wittie. Let me check the dilation of your pupils.”

DeWitt pulled away.

“Any dizziness? Double vision?”

“Cut it out.” Exhausted, DeWitt collapsed into one of the half-dozen raspberry plush chairs.

“That’s right,” Foster said encouragingly. “You just relax and I’ll get something for that bleeding.” He dashed out the door. A few moments later he was back with a Styrofoam cup of water and a handful of paper towels.

“I can’t believe they’d do this to you.” Foster daubed at DeWitt’s wound, wincing in sympathy as he worked. “I mean, you grew up with these people. Jimmy’s only lived here–what?–ten years?”

Foster’s attentions were so tentative as to be ineffectual. DeWitt snatched the wet towel away and with harsh, painful strokes wiped at the blood himself. “I had a little accident, Hubert, that’s all. Will you stop?”

Foster sat back like a retriever anxiously awaiting the hunter’s signal. When the paper towel was in tatters, Foster wordlessly gave him another. And when the towels stopped turning red, he brought him a plastic bag of ice.

“You got a joint?” Foster asked.

Baggie pressed to his aching head, DeWitt looked up, surprised at the banker’s presumption. Foster’s makeup had caked. Brown shadow made arcs over his lids.

“I get mine from Curtis. He told me you toke up sometimes. “

DeWitt glanced at the partially open door and the Torku outside on guard. “Smoking in here might not be a good idea.”

Foster laughed. “The Torku like marijuana. They think it makes us less linear. The only reason they confiscated booze and cigarettes was that Pastor Jimmy told them to. You didn’t know that? Doesn’t Seresen ever talk to you about things?”

DeWitt sat up straight. “Yeah, we talk.”

“Aliens as cosmic Jehovah’s Witnesses. And isn’t their religion weird? You notice how for the Torku time isn’t really time? You know how you look at a room over on their side and it’s one way? And then you look at it again and it’s changed? I think the Torku are universe-challenged.”

A chill droplet rolled down DeWitt’s forehead and into his eye. He swiped at it in exasperation. Seresen had never invited him to the Torku side of the center. He didn’t know what Foster was talking about.

“Wittie, I need a joint.”

“All my dope’s in the squad car.”

Foster’s guffaw was so loud that a Torku poked his head in the doorway. “In the squad car. God, that’s priceless.”

“What’s funny is you and Seresen. You talk, but I bet you never told him about con artists.”

Foster looked hurt. From the kitchen came a quiet rumble as the center’s ice maker engaged. There was a whine of a servo-motor then the crystalline clatter of the machine upchucking ice into its bin.

“Look, Wittie. I used to be a jerk. No wonder when we were kids you thought you were better than me. For you, goodness always came easy. But there’s a whole lot of people just like me across the Line. Their beamers and condos are gone. I want to tell those people what I’ve learned. What Seresen’s taught me about life. I want a chance to clear my karma.”

“Oh, karma? So tell me, Mr. Morality, how can your karma get clear if you’re screwing someone else’s wife? Unless, now that you’re a lapsed Catholic, you don’t think fornication is immoral.”

DeWitt could see, by the flush in Foster’s face, that he had hit home. “You mean . . . oh, the gossip. Okay, so I know some women. What’s wrong with that? Mostly we talk. Guys, you know, we really don’t say what’s on our minds. Women talk about their feelings. It’s a whole new way of seeing the world.”

DeWitt’s conversations with Janet were dust on a sideboard: transitory, easily wiped away. “I know about your affair with my wife.”

Foster could not have looked more surprised if during Holy Communion the celebrating priest had slapped him. “Wait. What makes you think she’s having an affair?”

“Cut the crap, Hubert. I’ve known for some time.”

“It’s not—” He stopped mid-sentence and swallowed hard. “I see. Did you confront her? What did she say? I just can’t believe she’d . . . that she actually—”

“I figure you killed Loretta. I assume you killed her boys. And Janet helped you. The tire tracks out at Sparrow Point were left by the Suburban’s Dunlops. There was caliche in the treads. Mud on her sneakers. But she couldn’t have disposed of the body alone. And you had the strongest motive. Whatever happens from this point on, I don’t want her implicated. And I want you to tell me why Bo’s covering for you. Does he know you did it? Is he trying to shift the blame to Seresen?”

“Bo’s not covering . . . God.” Foster’s voice shook so that DeWitt could barely understand him. “Jesus, DeWitt. You can’t think your own wife murdered Loretta. That I . . . this is crazy.”

“Here’s your story. I want you to memorize it so no one can trip you up. You killed Loretta, but couldn’t fit her in the Corvette’s trunk. You said you wanted to haul firewood when you borrowed the Suburban from me. You understand? You got the Suburban from me.”

DeWitt wondered how Foster made people love him. How tiny Janet could murder; how gentle Seresen could protect them both; and how the honest Bo could lie.

“Bo knows I didn’t kill her. And Janet would never . . . oh, shit. What a mess.”

“Be a man about it, Hubert. Don’t start pointing fingers. I promise, if you shield Janet, I’ll help you. We’ll go for manslaughter, if possible. Or self-defense.”

It baffled DeWitt why Foster thought he was a good man. He lied to suspects just as he was lying now, because if the kids were dead, Foster would be facing capital murder. And DeWitt would try his best to hurry him to execution before he had a chance to talk.

“Stop staring at me, DeWitt. I hate when you do that. You’ve got your cop face on. You look at me like you’d never known me; like you don’t believe a word I’m saying.”

“The thing I don’t understand is how you did it, Hubert. I wish you’d tell me. How did you make that wound?”

Foster didn’t reply. He looked at his watch and then looked again. “It’s eight-thirty already. Christ, I need a joint.” His smile was off-kilter. “You want to let me in your squad car?”

DeWitt handed him the keys.

Foster came back with a handful of weed, and they smoked. DeWitt checked the time. Eight-thirty became nine, nine crawled its way to nine-thirty. At ten-thirty Foster got up and went into an unlit room, DeWitt at his heels. In the glow from the doorway, Foster walked to an L-shaped pit group and collapsed. DeWitt lay down on the other leg of the overstuffed sofa without bothering to remove his boots.

In the darkness DeWitt felt time slip. He might have been a teenager again on a high school camp-out. They’d be sharing a can of beer Foster had filched from his daddy. Curtis would be talking about girls. Simpler times, smaller worries, even though Janet would be at school the next day, Foster’s letter jacket around her shoulders, his class ring around her neck.

From the dark sofa, Foster whispered, “Listen, Wittie. I’m not having an affair with Janet and I didn’t kill Loretta.”

DeWitt lifted his wrist. According to the glowing face of his digital, it was five till eleven. The rec center was silent. A Torku stood at the doorway as though asleep on his feet. “Don’t be scared to confess, Hubert. I’ll take care of everything.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

God’s grace comes to those who wait, and Schoen had become an expert at waiting.

He checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Around him, on Main Street, the townspeople were climbing ladders, hurriedly painting the Sign above their doors. Schoen imagined the quiet tread of the Angel, pictured scythed Death searching doorposts for God’s mark.

His congregation stood ready, clubs and sticks in hand.

Quick footsteps on asphalt drew his attention. Dee Dee was walking toward him, her hands on her hips. “Jimmy, honey, you’ve gotten everybody upset. Everybody’s so
upset.
And, I’m sorry, this is just
my
opinion, but that red paint looks tacky. It’s dripping all down the doors. Can’t you tell the men to be careful, and take their time? It’s enamel paint, Jimmy. They’ll never get that off.”

“Don’t embarrass me, Dee Dee,” he warned. “Don’t dare question me in front of my congregation.”

As she turned to study the smears of red, he noticed her hair.

“Did I or did I not tell you to put a rinse on that?”

Her hand flew to her curls. “The frosting? I’m fixing to, honey. I just haven’t had time, what with the revolution and all. I’ve made lemonade and coffee and gallons of iced tea. Sweetened and unsweetened. And I’ve helped the bake sale ladies put their sandwiches out. Tuna fish with pecans is what we voted on. I wanted watercress, but the girls didn’t think the men would eat them. I cut the crusts off, anyway. Don’t you think that’s the most sophisticated thing, Jimmy? When you cut the sandwich crusts off?”

Everything else was going according to plan; everyone was under control but his wife. That night, when he asked, hadn’t his flock embraced the sinners? Hadn’t they forgiven the sins with streaming eyes?

“It’s getting cold,” she complained. “My fingers are freezing making all that tea. Everybody’s overheated. The whole congregation’s going to catch their death in this wind. When are you going to let us go home?”

“When it is finished.” As punctuation, he turned his back on her.

Schoen wouldn’t strike tonight. God’s metronome ticked to a different rhythm than man’s. The Master of Timelessness tarried; through millennia He abided. When the Signs were painted and the unrepentant culled, that’s when the reaping would begin.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

DeWitt awoke to find Seresen leaning over him. He sat up fast. The neighboring sofa was vacant. “What’s the matter? What is it? We being attacked?”

“Everything is peaceful. And no one would wish to attack us. It is time to make deliveries.”

Addled by a pounding headache, DeWitt followed Seresen outside. The morning was damp, the parking lot hushed, only the soft-footed Torku moving in it.

“Where’s Hubert? I need to get some things straight with him.”

“We will go in your car.” Seresen opened the passenger door and got in.

DeWitt relinquished his questions to the dreamy, somnolent morning. Different times of the day brought the past back. Night reminded him of childhood friends; dawn, of fishing trips and early-morning cafe breakfasts with his father.

Yawning, he dug the keys out of his pocket. As he drove off, he pictured Denny sitting next to him: the fishing poles in back; the tackle boxes with their brightly feathered lures stacked neat, each lure in its own narrow house.

When they arrived at Curtis’s, Seresen led his workers into the convenience store; and while they restocked, DeWitt made himself a pot of coffee on the commercial machine. Curtis appeared, dressed in a ratty pair of sweats and a bathrobe.

“Jesus,” he said. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Want a toke?”

“Shit, Curtis. Is that your idea of hospitality? Most people offer a beer. Every time we get together all you want to do is smoke.”

“How do you know? You ain’t been by.” The little mayor sounded hurt.

“I’ve been busy. I got a murder to solve and your revolution to put down single-handed, remember?”

Curtis asked, “My revolution?” like a man trying to comprehend that he’d locked his keys in his car. “When did I start a revolution?”

“Weren’t you there? I thought everybody else was down at the church last night plotting to kill me and the Torku.”

“You’re kidding! I missed the whole thing. I was watching
Animal House
on the VCR.”

DeWitt drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into a green trash barrel.

“Revolution, huh? Sure you don’t want a little toke?”

The Torku seemed busy, and order in Coomey was going down the drain. “Hell. Why not.”

The sun had topped the horizon, turning Curtis’s collection of cars-on-blocks a regal blue and gold. The house was too brightly lit, too immediate, to contain the magic kingdom of dawn.

In the bathroom, Curtis flipped down the toilet lid and sat. DeWitt perched on the rim of the tub. “Had a run on lighter fluid and Bic lighters.” The mayor lit a joint and, in a neighborly gesture, handed it to him.

DeWitt took a toke and gave it back. “Lighter fluid? I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Meeting at the church, huh? I bet they had a dinner on the ground. I bet Patti Dix brought some of her jalapeño German potato salad. God, I love that stuff.”

“What else is missing out of the store, Curtis?”

“Crap, I don’t know. Who cares? I bet Irene Mostler made one of her chocolate cakes. And I know Dee Dee Schoen was there. “ Curtis shook his head. “The way I want to die is by nipping Dee Dee Schoen on the butt, coming down with lockjaw, and being dragged to death.”

DeWitt blinked in surprise. “Dee Dee?”

“Bet she’s a wild woman in bed. Bet her husband ain’t man enough for her. I look into her eyes and can see there’s a whole world of excitement. Lord knows there ain’t enough to do around here. Already memorized my taped movies. What do you think, Wittie? Should I send her flowers or maybe a card or something?”

“You have the hots for
Dee Dee?”

“Oh, yeah,” Curtis said meaningfully, raising an eyebrow. “Dee Dee.”

It was too warm in the little bathroom, and the space heater stank of propane. DeWitt got up and rummaged until he found Curtis’s Dry Idea. Unbuttoning his shirt, he spread some in his armpits.

Curtis asked, “Why are they revolting, anyway?”

“People are stupid. You give them something, they tear it up. That’s why they paint the graffiti. That’s why they want to get to the other side of the Line.”

Curtis handed him the joint.

DeWitt declined. The dope was hitting him wrong, making him maudlin instead of jolly. “The way I see it, whatever’s outside that Line isn’t the United States we remember. I imagine we’re a whole lot better off with the Torku. What do you think?”

Curtis shrugged. “I got
Mad Max
on video, so I’m with you.”

The mayor flushed the rest of the joint and they went outside. Seresen was already back in the car, waiting.

During the drive to town, DeWitt felt trapped behind a cottony bottleneck of sleepiness and old memories. He didn’t bother to speak. When the van stopped on Main, DeWitt parked behind it. Seresen got out, and DeWitt got out with him.

The Torku workers began pulling boxes from the van. The few people who had been outside melted quickly into the shadows. The graffiti artists had been busy, DeWitt noticed. There was red paint above most of the shop doors: a sloppy upside-down V so incongruous that it made his scalp crawl.

When DeWitt and the aliens walked into The Fashion Plate, Darnelle looked up from sorting blouses.

Seresen put a bill of lading down on a pile of brassieres. “We have come to bring supplies. Do you want them?”

Darnelle ambled over to one of the boxes and, before the Torku worker could put it down, began examining the merchandise. “Good heavens, pastels. Spring and Summer colors. Nothing makes a statement here.” As the Torku tried to steady the box, Darnelle pawed through it. “Nothing for our Autumns or Winters. These are just the wrong resonant essences.”

DeWitt wandered to the window. At the curb, two pieces of white paper, caught in an eddy of air, tumbled and chased themselves like kittens.

“Come here, Mr. Kol,” Darnelle said. “I’ll show you what colors I mean.” And she steered Seresen to the back.

The Torku workers had put down the boxes and were standing motionless in their Banana Republic shirts, a photo grouping of preposterous explorers.

“You got those sticks with you?” DeWitt asked.

The nearest Torku regarded him.

“You have weapons under those shirts? We may have some trouble.”

They didn’t answer, but one crossed to the window and looked out. DeWitt walked through the store, past the dressing rooms to the exit. He pushed on the steel bar and opened the back door.

The alley smelled of mold and rotting oranges. As he made his way toward Houston Street, Bo stepped into a square of golden sunlight at the corner. His eyes traced DeWitt’s wound.

Bo asked softly, “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Where’s Seresen?”

“Inside. Why?”

“I’m going in there. I’m taking Seresen into custody.”

Suddenly the alley was blurred, Bo’s face indistinct. Nothing was real, not even the garbage cans gathered like onlookers in a doorway.

DeWitt sucked in a breath. “
You’re
going in there ?
You’re
taking him into custody? Aren’t you forgetting who’s police chief and who’s the officer?”

“Forget who’s police chief? Wittie, you never let me forget. You order me around. And the Torku. And your wife. And Hattie.”

The bruised lump on DeWitt’s head began to pound. “Hattie? Is she talking behind my back? Damn her! And you think you have the right to judge me? What would you know about relationships? It looks like you never had anyone in your house. Everything so nitpicking clean. Everything in its place. You keep house like a girl, like a—”

DeWitt swallowed his next word. The unthinkable stuck in his throat.

Bo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what I do after hours.“

“You watch six-year-old news reports. And I bet you haven’t had three dates in the past nine years. Why, Bo? I’ve seen how women look at you. Maybe it’s the motorcycle uniform, but, even so, you must know you’re . . . I mean, even I know you’re ... What I mean to say is, okay, it’s not like you have two heads or three eyes or something . . .”

You looked so good in that uniform, Wittie.

“Come with me.” Bo stepped forward, holding out his hand.

DeWitt remembered Bo groping Curtis’s inseam. The surprised Curtis going tiptoe.

Kiss me first.

DeWitt pulled back. If Bo touched him, he’d knock him down. “Don’t.”

Bo halted, hand outstretched.

“Damn it, Bo. You could have told me. I wouldn’t have fired you.” It didn’t matter that Bo was gay. It didn’t. It was the lies that hurt.

The rigid officialness dropped from Bo’s face. He looked young, sad, and frightened.

“It’s just . . . when it interferes with your job, you see? It shouldn’t interfere with your job.”

“DeWitt.” Bo’s voice was weary. “You don’t understand.”

“I’m not totally insensitive. I mean, sure, there’s been times I’ve done things I shouldn’t. I’ve let a good-looking woman off with a warning when I would have ticketed someone else. You know how guys . . . well, I’ve never thought about it, but I guess for you ... but,
Christ. Foster?
You’re in love with
Foster
?”

Bo stood ramrod straight, his cheeks aflame. “You’re full of shit!”

“Take it easy, okay? I mean, big deal. You still in the closet? It’s no good running from it. Building up all that rage. Is that why you killed that boy in Dallas?”

“Get out of my way, DeWitt.”

DeWitt grabbed for his baton, but saw the futility of it. Bo was four inches taller, eleven years younger, and adversity had made him strong.

From Main Street came a bang, like the report of a large-caliber gun. Black smoke rose over the rooftops.

DeWitt whirled and ran for Darnelle’s.

The Torku and Seresen had left The Fashion Plate. The boxes of clothes lay in a bright jumble. DeWitt burst through the front door. The bank, the police station were burning. Beyond the parked squad car, the UPS van was in flames.

A dark form with a ski mask darted from the drugstore, a sixteen-ounce Coke bottle in his hand. The bottle had a burning wick in it.

The wind-up. The pitch. Too stunned to run for cover, DeWitt saw burning sparks fly from the wick, watched the bottle hit the street and burst into flame.

The Torku workers began unbuttoning the pockets of their safari shirts. They pulled out their sticks. Through the inferno came the gigantic form of another UPS van. The truck squealed to a halt, its doors flew open, and more armed Torku piled out.

“Seresen!” DeWitt’s shout was lost in the noise. “Stop! Don’t do this! If you hurt anybody, I’ll . . .”

What? What could he do?
Events had been set in motion. Now the aliens would destroy what they had gone to such pains to save.

A startling Code Three wail. Bo’s motorcycle sped around the van and skidded to a stop between the Torku and the revolutionaries. Without haste, Bo turned off his siren and his lights. Sun glinted off his helmet, off the mirrored shades he wore. He set the kickstand, dismounted from his bike, and strode to the street’s double yellow line.

“You are under arrest for suspicion of arson!” Bo stood, uniform pressed, boots spit-shined. “Destruction of private property. Assault with intent. Reckless endangerment. And littering.”

The street fell silent but for the roar and crackle of the fires. Not even the Torku moved.

Bo spun to DeWitt. “Is your Polaroid in your trunk? I want to gather evidence. And I need flares for traffic. Don’t touch that Coke bottle!” he warned the Torku who, accustomed to cleaning up after humans, were bending to pick up the garbage. “I’ll want fingerprints.”

The townspeople, some with masks and some without, had eased out of the shops and were standing, caught between exhilarating rebellion and Bo’s daunting law.

“Give me your keys.”

DeWitt put the keys in Bo’s palm. Bo walked away. Alone, DeWitt surveyed the crowd: a hundred familiar faces. Smoke boiled from the police station. Flames tongued from the windows and licked at the walls. The sound of the fire was an airy rumble, like the noise of a passing jet.

Bo was still bent over the trunk, searching for something. What was taking him so long? Suddenly he called, “DeWitt?”

DeWitt walked toward the car, thinking that it didn’t matter if Bo was gay. Nothing between them had changed. When he reached him, he saw Bo was empty-handed. Where were the flares, the camera?

Bo lunged, rattlesnake-quick, and pain drove DeWitt to his knees. Bo had DeWitt’s wrist in a bone-cracking grip and was twisting it behind his back.

“Don’t try to fight me,” Bo cautioned him.

Doc came running across the street. He looked in the trunk and shrank back as though what he saw there had cut him. “Wittie! How could you?”

“What are you talking about?’ , DeWitt struggled against the handcuffs. Bo seized the back of DeWitt’s jacket, wrenched him to his feet, slammed him against the rear of the squad car.

And DeWitt saw the reason for his arrest. The answer lay less than six inches from his face. The trash bag of dope had been pushed off the wheel well, and there inside the dusty trunk lay blood-splattered pink cardboard containers and strands of bleached blond hair.

DeWitt would have fallen if Bo hadn’t grabbed him.

Bo said calmly, “It’s all over now, DeWitt. I’ve got you on conspiracy. Tell the people how the Torku murdered Loretta and how you covered for them.”

The enraged crowd surged forward. A Torku grabbed the hem of DeWitt’s jacket and pulled him off his feet. Bo’s fingernails, seeking purchase, raked DeWitt’s arm.

Above him and around him, shrieks. Bo’s angry shout, like a call to order. Someone lifted DeWitt, flung him into the rear of the UPS van, and shut the doors with a clang.

His right arm was numb; his wrist ached. Fighting for breath, he sat up. Seresen was across from him. The walls of the truck muffled the townspeople’s angry screams.