Watkins - 01 - Blood Country

by Mary Logue

  “He’s here,” she whispered at him as he held her in his arms. “Who?”

  “The man who did this to me.”

  “Where?” Chuck asked as he pushed her off him and looked around. “Show me where he is.”

  “In produce.”

  “You stay here, and I’ll go check him out.” Chuck turned back to her. “Point him out.”

  “He has red hair. I’m coming too.”

  As they walked toward the red-haired man, who was testing tomatoes, Bridget grew less sure of his identity, but she picked up a cantaloupe just in case she needed something to throw at him.

  Chuck walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned, Bridget got the same relieved yet horrible feeling she had had in the field, when the man kneeling over her had a different face from the one she expected. He wasn’t Red. He was just a normal man, doing his grocery shopping.

  Chuck looked at her, and she shook her head to indicate it wasn’t the man who had hurt her. Then she felt faint, too heavy to keep standing. There was only one thing to do. She dropped the melon, and it broke open on the floor, spilling orange seeds on her tennis shoes.

  CLAIRE STARED AT the big reddish-tan fortress she had worked in for ten years and felt as if she were entering a monastery—the holy order of the fraternity of cops. Taking up the whole block of Fourth Street and Fourth Avenue, the stone building had a clock tower in it and at one time had been one of the taller buildings in the city. But that was almost a hundred years ago.

  She walked into the building and felt the coolness of the stone brush her face. No need for air-conditioning in this place; the marble and limestone kept it cool all summer long. The Father of the Waters statue in the atrium waved at her from his throne of turtles.

  Claire hadn’t been in this building since she had left the force. She wondered if she would run into anyone she knew and hoped she didn’t see Bruce. She hadn’t told him she was coming in, and he would be mad at her. He rarely worked on Saturdays, so there was a good chance she wouldn’t.

  She walked down the white hallways, devoid of any art, but now and then a plaque of some distinguished nature would appear. She turned the right corners and walked in through the glass doors of the police department. She told the woman at the desk that she wanted to go into the archives. She pulled out her deputy sheriff’s badge for Pepin County and said the right words. The woman let her pass.

  Claire kept feeling like she was breaking and entering, but she reminded herself she was here on official business.

  The archives were empty, which didn’t surprise her for a late Saturday afternoon. She knew the woman, Bonnie, who pulled the files, and when she told her the years she wanted, Bonnie looked annoyed. Claire had given up trying to please Bonnie years ago. What really surprised Claire was that Bonnie didn’t even remark on the fact that she hadn’t seen Claire in over a year. But nothing surprised Bonnie.

  “You want to go back to eighty-seven and pull four years’ worth of files?” the woman asked in a snotty tone of voice.

  “Yes.” Claire said the word clearly. “I don’t think it’s that unusual a request.”

  “Usually people are a little more specific. It’s going to take me three hours just to gather that.”

  Claire suggested, “Let’s start with 1992 and work backward.”

  “It’s a deal. I can pull that for you pretty fast.”

  It took her fifty-five minutes. Claire sat on one of the hard chairs in the waiting area, trying to reconstruct that year in her mind: Meg was five, and Steve had just gotten a new job, they had bought their house in the suburbs, and by the end of the year, she had been taken off the streets and had started working with Bruce. A good year, as she remembered it. Claire had thought at the time that she was aimed in the right direction.

  Memories could do her in. She would think back to the time before her husband had been killed, and the light in the air seemed more golden. She had been another woman—open, excited, more alive. When her husband had died, part of her had died with him. More of her would have gone, except Meg needed her. She wondered if that part of her would ever return, if she would one day be whole again.

  “Here you go.”

  Methodically, case by case, Claire went back over the year. She had arrested shoplifters, pickpockets, johns, disorderlies, drunks, psychos, but no guy beating up a prostitute.

  While she had been going through the year, Bonnie had gone and gathered another file.

  Claire went through this year—1991—and found the guy. His file was in order, and there was a black-and-white mug shot. But she could tell just from reading the description that she had found the right man. Clarence Dudley Warren, alias “Nickel,” alias “Jesus,” alias “Red.” Picked up for beating the crap out of a prostitute working Lake Street.

  “Bonnie, could you pull this guy’s record?”

  “Deputy, I’m off in fifteen minutes.”

  “Just bring it up on the screen for me. Let me sit and stare at it.”

  The woman thought about it.

  Claire looked at her and asked, “Bonnie, do you have kids?”

  “Yeah, little boy and little girl, and they’re home waiting for me.”

  “Well, this guy tried to kidnap my ten-year-old daughter Meg and shot up my pregnant sister.”

  “Say no more.” She leaned into the screen, and Claire watched the green light aura her face. After several commands, she turned the monitor to Claire. “It’s all yours. I’ll let Joe know you’re in here. You can stay as long as you want. I’m outta here.”

  Claire read the biography of the man who she feared had killed her husband. Warren was thirty-five years old. She would have popped him when he was twenty-nine and impressionable. Beating up the prostitute wasn’t his first offense. He had been picked up several times on dealing charges, two before she had arrested him and one afterward. She scrolled down to get the information off that latest arrest. It had been made by Bruce—several months before she had partnered with him.

  That struck her as odd. Why this connection with Bruce?

  Just chance, a coincidence? She would have to ask Bruce about it, see what he had to say about Warren.

  THERE WAS ONE more place she wanted to look for information on this guy Clarence; she hoped Joe Howard was still on duty. He had been a police sergeant for as long as she could remember. He ran the office, knew everything that was going on. She found him making coffee in the back room.

  “Hey, Claire. Look at you. You sure are a sight for sore eyes. It’s been way too long.” Joe beamed at her like a proud parent. He had raised her in this building.

  “You’re right, Joe. It’s good to see you.”

  “I heard you’re on another force these days.”

  “Yes, I’m a deputy for Pepin County down in Wisconsin.”

  “Quieter?”

  “You can say that again.”

  Joe laughed. “That probably suits you these days, huh?” “Gives me time to garden.”

  “Good for you.” Joe offered her a cup of coffee. “Fresh brewed.”

  For old times’ sake, she took it. It was always bad, but it gave the cops something to complain about.

  “Wow, this is worse than I remembered.” “See what you been missing.” Joe slurped a mouthful of coffee, gargled it around in his mouth, and swallowed it. “Speaking of missing, old Bruce hasn’t been the same without you. You guys were quite a team. He hasn’t even partnered up with anyone since. He’s going it alone these days. Do you ever see him?” “Yeah, we keep in touch.”

  “What brings you here? Not to reminisce, I assume.” “I’m just checking up on an old felony I sent away about six years back. A guy by the name of Clarence Warren. You know anything about him?” Claire showed Joe the picture of the guy.

  Joe pulled out his reading glasses, which he had tucked in his breast pocket, and looked over the picture and information. “Seems to me he’s somebody’s informant.”

  Claire didn’t say
anything, watching Joe spin through his amazing mind. He could remember anything; he actually had the gift of a photographic memory. Suddenly, he gave out a hoot. “Sure, I remember now. Bruce had him under his thumb for a while. Informing on some drug dealers. Left him stranded at court while one of the dealers got off scot-free, and this Clarence guy almost peed his pants. Bruce came and picked him up in a squad. But that was quite a while ago. I haven’t heard anything about him recently.”

  Joe folded up his glasses and looked at Claire, his bottom lip hanging open, and then he sucked it in. “What’re you doing messing around with this guy? He down in your area? Get rid of him. He’s a case and a half, and liable to go off at any moment.”

  27

  You remind me of my dad a little bit.” Rich was stretched out on the bed next to Meg, and they had just finished reading a section of Through the Looking-Glass. He hadn’t read the book since he was a kid, and he hadn’t realized how funny it was. He loved the part where the White Queen told Alice that when she was a child she sometimes thought of six impossible things before breakfast. He needed to work on that exercise himself. “How’s that?”

  “You do voices.”

  “I do voices?”

  “Yeah, you know, when you read. The queen sounds different than Alice, and I really liked the way you did Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

  Rich dropped his voice and drawled a lazy English accent. “I’m delighted that my performance amused you, Your Majesty.”

  Meg giggled and looked very sleepy.

  “Do you want me to sit in the chair while you fall asleep?”

  “Oh, no. That was just for King Tut. But could you check on me from time to time? That’s what my mom does. She says I fight with my blanket all night long, so she has to come in and break it up and straighten it out.”

  “I think I can do that.”

  Her eyelids were fluttering, and she was almost under. “You won’t leave?”

  “No, absolutely not. That’s beyond impossible. That’s completely impractical.”

  Her lips curved into a slight smile, and she turned her head into the pillow. He left the door open halfway and the light in the hallway on as he had been instructed. Meg struck him as a girl who knew her mind. She knew what she wanted, and she knew how to ask for it. He really liked her and admired her. Someone was raising her right.

  Once Meg was asleep, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He wandered from room to room downstairs, looking for clues as to who Claire was. She was an organized housekeeper, but not particularly tidy. She didn’t dust often, and he was fascinated by one loopy cobweb in the corner of the bathroom. But her cookbooks in the kitchen were neatly arranged, and her spices were in a row and looked like they actually got used.

  There were a few pictures: a great one of Claire when she was in her teens, and a gorgeous younger woman who he guessed was her sister Bridget. Claire looked all sparkly and had long, straight dark hair parted in the middle. Her teeth looked too big for her mouth, but her lips were also full. She was flirting with the camera, and she looked like a handful. It made him sad to think of all that had happened to her since then. When Meg had mentioned her father, he had been tempted to probe, but decided he would rather hear about the man from Claire.

  He sat on her couch and read a copy of a magazine called Country Journal and learned how to rustproof your gardening tools. He might borrow that from her. Rich realized he didn’t know when Claire would be getting home. She had said something about not being too late, but he hadn’t an idea what that meant to her. He tended to angle toward bed around nine-thirty, ten o’clock. It was after nine, and he hadn’t heard anything from her. He wondered what she had been up to, and if she would let him know.

  He decided it was time to make the rounds. He checked on King Tut out on the porch. The little bird was definitely prospering, which he hadn’t been sure would be the case. Maybe it was just so relieved to be away from the chick that had been pecking it that it didn’t mind all the attention it was getting from these strange humans.

  Next, he climbed the stairs and peeked in at Meg. Her mother was right. The covers looked like they had been strangled, twisted in her hands while the ends drooped to the floor. He gently untangled them and covered her again. She stirred, but just a whisper.

  Then he went and stood in the doorway of Claire’s bedroom. The hall light shone in, illuminating a patch across the floor and over her bedside table. On the table he saw what he had been looking throughout the house for—a picture of her husband. It was actually the whole family—Claire with Meg in her arms, and her husband behind her. He looked like he wouldn’t give up life without a struggle. He was a big man, like that cop Bruce. Maybe that was Claire’s type. He looked away and saw that the rest of the room was spare. The bed was dressed simply with white sheets and a comforter. The bedroom smelled clean and sweet, with just a hint of musk.

  Rich walked down the stairs and then went outside and sat on the steps. The wind blew through the trees, and up the hill he heard an owl hooting. What the hell was he doing baby-sitting for a woman with whom he was falling in love? But maybe Stuart was right; maybe the way to Claire’s heart, at least right now, led through her daughter. No matter what came of it all, he would be glad for the sweetness of his friendship with Meg. He had grown up without younger siblings and didn’t think he knew what to do with kids. But she was truly a small person, surprising him with her odd ways.

  He heard the sound of gravel crunching up the hill, then lights cut across the lawn, and finally Claire’s car turned into the driveway. She didn’t see him at first, and when she turned off the car, she simply sat still for a few minutes, staring straight ahead at the bluff Must have been some shopping trip. He wondered if he should ask her what she bought. When she got out of the car, he decided not to. She looked stupefied, as if something had hit her in the face and she still didn’t quite believe it. He decided he would let her do the talking.

  He stood up and yelled, “Hi,” to let her know he was watching her.

  “Oh, hi. What’re you doing out here?”

  “Nice night.”

  Claire looked around as if she were presented with the night for the first time. “It’s not too cold.”

  “No, not too cold. Definitely springlike.”

  She walked up to him and tried to smile, but it was a sham. Her hair was loose and hung over her shoulders like a veil. Her eyes were only dark in the light from the house. “Would you like a drink?” she asked him.

  “Yes. I would love a drink.”

  “I mean a real drink,” she continued as they walked into the house together.

  “How real?” he asked.

  “A single-malt Scotch.” She walked up to the spice rack and pulled the cupboard door behind it open. From behind the boxes of macaroni and cans of tomato sauce, she pulled out a long-necked bottle.

  “Sounds good.”

  She showed it to him. “I have this bottle that I only bring out when I really need a drink.”

  “Well, I am honored.”

  She didn’t say anything. She went to the next cupboard and brought out two juice glasses. “Do you want Wilma or Fred?”

  “We’re drinking with the Flintstones?”

  “They were handy.”

  “I’ll take Wilma.”

  Claire pulled off the cork and poured him a healthy swig. “Good choice. She’s smarter than Fred.”

  She poured herself a drink and chugged it, then poured another shot. They sat down at the kitchen table.

  “How was Meg?”

  “Meg was fine. She’s a good kid.”

  That brought a smile out of her. “She is a good kid. She likes you.”

  “I like her.”

  Claire looked down at the drink she held in her hands and swirled the golden liquor around in her glass. “I like you.”

  He didn’t know what to say. He knew he should say that he liked her too, but he felt like that wasn’t enough, and would soun
d like he was simply copying her. He took a sip of the Scotch. Then he felt fortified enough to say, “It’s mutual.”

  Claire turned her hands up. “I’m not really available to be liked.”

  Rich took another sip. “That’s okay.”

  “I mean, my life is a mess.”

  Rich didn’t argue. He had learned that didn’t work. He watched her, waiting for a clue as to what she wanted.