guys.”
“That his wife?”
Scott stepped across the room. He had stopped taking notes. He looked into the dead woman’s face for only a second.
“Yeah,” he said, but there was an unusual tone in his voice.
“What?” I said, watching his eyes.
“You know, locker-room shit,” he said, turning away. “Guys said he was using her for a punching bag.”
“And let me guess. Nobody reported it.”
We both went quiet and I stepped back over to the woman. There was a half-burned photo of a couple in their wedding clothes on the floor next to her. The smell of the burned acetate was still in the air.
“Maybe he was trying to make it up to her,” Scott said, “with all this.”
“Yeah. Make it up,” I said.
I crossed the room back over to the body and knelt down into the deep carpet and turned the officer’s head and looked into the dead face. At first it looked familiar, the low trim of the long sideburns, the oil in the hair, and then the dream turned on me and I could see the face of my father.
I was startled awake by the feeling of falling and struck my heels hard against the plank floor to keep myself from sliding out of the straight-backed chair. The room was dark and thick with humidity, and I could feel the sheen of sweat on my back and under my thighs. The mix of dream and memory had left me shaking. I moved with habit and got a gallon of fresh water from my makeshift cooler and drank for several seconds from the plastic bottle. As I stood in the night, shaking, the first few drops of rain began to ping against the tin roof and patter in the leaves of the canopy outside, and I knew there would be no more sleep before dawn.
CHAPTER
6
I stopped at a roadside place on the way into town that was popular with truckers and local farmers, and I joined a handful of them with hash browns soaked in gravy, collard greens and strong, black coffee. The middle-aged black waitress looked at me twice, and winked at me when I left her a large tip. It was still before 7:00 A.M.
Once in the city, I parked in the same lot I always used off Clematis Street, near the county courthouse. The old man who ran the lot put me close to a space next to his payment shack and touched the fender of the truck after giving me the ticket.
“I take care of her, Mr. Max.”
“I know you will,” I said, and walked south. The streets of West Palm Beach were busy with cars, but the sidewalks could never match them the way they did in the big northeast cities. People here parked close to their offices, and newer towers were built with parking inside on the first few floors. You rarely found yourself mobbed up at a crosswalk with other pedestrians unless it was lunch hour or after hours on the more popular restaurant and club strips. The early morning rain had wrung out the clouds and the sky had gone clear and blue with the southeast breeze. The walk was worth it—I was disappointed when I got to Billy’s building and had to go inside.
Billy was behind his broad desk with piles of stacked folders and the flat-screen computer monitor holding his attention.
“M-Max,” he said in greeting, without looking up. “You are l-looking w-well.”
I knew not to break his concentration and crossed the room to the floor-to-ceiling windows that formed the southwest corner. From up here you could see the southern parts of the city of Palm Beach to the east, the line of office buildings and condos along Lake Worth to the south, and the horizon in a cloudy fog to the west. Billy and his views.
“A little last-minute cramming for Mayes,” I finally said.
“No. F-For you,” he said, tapping something on the keyboard and getting up.
“County c-codes would restrict you from r-rebuilding any part of the original st-structure of the research station even if it was to b- become uninhabitable due to any cause, n-natural or m-man-made.”
Billy had not dismissed my news of the fire.
“Despite the ninety-nine-year
“That his wife?”
Scott stepped across the room. He had stopped taking notes. He looked into the dead woman’s face for only a second.
“Yeah,” he said, but there was an unusual tone in his voice.
“What?” I said, watching his eyes.
“You know, locker-room shit,” he said, turning away. “Guys said he was using her for a punching bag.”
“And let me guess. Nobody reported it.”
We both went quiet and I stepped back over to the woman. There was a half-burned photo of a couple in their wedding clothes on the floor next to her. The smell of the burned acetate was still in the air.
“Maybe he was trying to make it up to her,” Scott said, “with all this.”
“Yeah. Make it up,” I said.
I crossed the room back over to the body and knelt down into the deep carpet and turned the officer’s head and looked into the dead face. At first it looked familiar, the low trim of the long sideburns, the oil in the hair, and then the dream turned on me and I could see the face of my father.
I was startled awake by the feeling of falling and struck my heels hard against the plank floor to keep myself from sliding out of the straight-backed chair. The room was dark and thick with humidity, and I could feel the sheen of sweat on my back and under my thighs. The mix of dream and memory had left me shaking. I moved with habit and got a gallon of fresh water from my makeshift cooler and drank for several seconds from the plastic bottle. As I stood in the night, shaking, the first few drops of rain began to ping against the tin roof and patter in the leaves of the canopy outside, and I knew there would be no more sleep before dawn.
CHAPTER
6
I stopped at a roadside place on the way into town that was popular with truckers and local farmers, and I joined a handful of them with hash browns soaked in gravy, collard greens and strong, black coffee. The middle-aged black waitress looked at me twice, and winked at me when I left her a large tip. It was still before 7:00 A.M.
Once in the city, I parked in the same lot I always used off Clematis Street, near the county courthouse. The old man who ran the lot put me close to a space next to his payment shack and touched the fender of the truck after giving me the ticket.
“I take care of her, Mr. Max.”
“I know you will,” I said, and walked south. The streets of West Palm Beach were busy with cars, but the sidewalks could never match them the way they did in the big northeast cities. People here parked close to their offices, and newer towers were built with parking inside on the first few floors. You rarely found yourself mobbed up at a crosswalk with other pedestrians unless it was lunch hour or after hours on the more popular restaurant and club strips. The early morning rain had wrung out the clouds and the sky had gone clear and blue with the southeast breeze. The walk was worth it—I was disappointed when I got to Billy’s building and had to go inside.
Billy was behind his broad desk with piles of stacked folders and the flat-screen computer monitor holding his attention.
“M-Max,” he said in greeting, without looking up. “You are l-looking w-well.”
I knew not to break his concentration and crossed the room to the floor-to-ceiling windows that formed the southwest corner. From up here you could see the southern parts of the city of Palm Beach to the east, the line of office buildings and condos along Lake Worth to the south, and the horizon in a cloudy fog to the west. Billy and his views.
“A little last-minute cramming for Mayes,” I finally said.
“No. F-For you,” he said, tapping something on the keyboard and getting up.
“County c-codes would restrict you from r-rebuilding any part of the original st-structure of the research station even if it was to b- become uninhabitable due to any cause, n-natural or m-man-made.”
Billy had not dismissed my news of the fire.
“Despite the ninety-nine-year
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