Absolute Rage (20 page)

Karp raised other objections; Sterner countered them. Karp felt himself rolling. He was no mean arguer himself, but he understood that he was up against one of the great negotiators of the twentieth century, a man who had reportedly wrestled Lyndon Baines Johnson to the mat more than once. It was like batting against Nolan Ryan, almost an honor to be struck out.

*  *  *

Why am I sleeping in bloody sheets? Marlene asked herself, and immediately the answer came: because I am in the bed where Lizzie was murdered. She tried to move and found she couldn't; something was holding her down. The killers. She felt a thrill of terror and struggled to move. A heavy weight was resting on all her limbs; she screamed. The weight diminished. She was in a dim room. There was a shape there, a man. She let out a little shriek and felt on the bedside table for her key ring.

She lit the little Maglite attached to her keys. Dan Heeney, dressed in a faded bathrobe, blinked in its beam.

“Marlene, are you all right?”

She dropped the beam. “Yeah, I'm fine.” She was in fact in Lizzie's room, but on a new bed with fresh bed-clothes.

“You were screaming. I thought . . .” He hefted the pistol in his hand.

“No, just a nightmare. What time is it?”

“Around four.”

“Oh, great! I must have woken you up. Sorry.”

“No, I haven't been sleeping much lately.”

“I bet. Why don't you put that thing down?”

He dropped the pistol into the pocket of his bathrobe. Its weight pulled the robe ludicrously down on one side. He made no move to depart, and he looked so woebe-gone that she said, “Pull up a bed. I'll never get back to sleep now.” She yawned and stretched. He sat gingerly on the corner of the bed.

“So, what do you do when you're not sleeping?”

“Oh, I'm on the Net mainly. Talking to people, insomniacs and people in other time zones. Reading physics. Trying to find answers.”

“To physics?”

“No. Just stuff.” A self-deprecating laugh. “Religion. Life after death. I can't believe they're just, you know,
gone.”
It was dim in the room, the only illumination coming from a baseboard night-light, a white plastic duck. His face was a blur, but she could feel his eyes on her. “Do you . . . I mean, are you like Lucy? You know, heaven and hell and all that?”

“And purgatory. I guess I'm what they call a recovering Catholic. You are not religious at all, I presume?”

“No. The opiate of the people. My mom was. I caught her a couple of times in their bedroom, with her eyes closed and her hands clasped, like in those pictures. Praying, I guess. But she kept it to herself. He was so down on it and there were enough things that got him pissed off, she probably figured she didn't need one more.” He let out a long breath. “So, the deal is what? They're all in hell according to you?”

“Actually not. The Church teaches that we can't tell for certain anyone's in hell who doesn't really want to be there. We think it's presumptuous to try to second-guess the mercy of God. What we have is the assurance of heaven if we live a certain kind of life. That's not the same thing as saying people who don't live that kind of life are going to end up frying.”

“Why would anyone want to be in hell?”

“The same reason lots of people manufacture a hell on earth. Sin. Evil. Why would you think they'd stop just because they're dead? They might not even know they were in hell.”

“But you think that, assuming heaven exists, we'll, like, be reunited with our loved ones when we die? Like in the gospel songs on the radio?”

“You know, I am absolutely the wrong person to talk to about this,” said Marlene, a little more sharply than she meant to. “Lucy could give you chapter and verse. My take is, it's either nothing—in which case, who cares? We experience nothingness every night of our lives and it doesn't bother us. Or it's an indescribable adventure, full of the ineffable pleasures of the beatific vision, in which case, whoopee!” This last was delivered in a light tone, to which he did not respond.

He shook his head, as if to clear it of something sticky. “I just feel this pain; not all the time, but sometimes I'll just be going along and it hits me. They're dead! It's like taking a shot to the belly. I have to sit down and catch my breath. Is that ever going to go away?”

The line “blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted” floated for an instant through Marlene's mind, but she banished it. She feared being hypocritical more than nearly anything, and so she said, “I don't know, but I think finding who did it and nailing them would be a good first step.” Did she really believe this? That was the problem: What did she believe anymore? She sat up in bed. “And, as long as we're up, why don't you let me get dressed and I'll get started on the laws of your fine state.”

He shot to his feet. “Um, sorry.” He went to the door. At which he paused and asked, “You think I should call Lucy? I mean, would she mind? I don't feel like talking to anyone from around here. They're all, I don't know,
involved
. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think calling Lucy would be a good idea. Making a gigantic pot of coffee would be another one. Also, you can find me the number of the nearest television station.”

By eight, Marlene was washed, combed, dressed, caffeine-wired to the gills, and pounding on the door of a frame house on Maple Street, McCullensburg. The house belonged to Ernest Poole and needed a coat of paint. And a mowing out front. No answer, front door locked, so she went around the back, jiggled open the cheap lock, and went in with her dog. A smell of garbage in the kitchen, and the remains of a Colonel Sanders on the greasy table. Poole himself had not made it up the stairs last night. She found him in a club chair in the dusty living room, a neat pool of vomit between his feet and an empty bottle of Harper stuck upright between his thighs, like a transparent erection. After making a quick recon of the ground floor, she found a carpet runner in the hall and tipped the man out of his chair onto it. He groaned and twitched, but did not shed his stupor. The floors were hardwood, worn and smooth, so she had little trouble dragging him down the hall to a bathroom. She got him into the tub in sections, upper body first and then the legs. The mastiff looked on with interest, having licked up the vomit while Marlene was thus engaged, and hoping for more.

Poole writhed like a bug on a grill when the cold water hit him and sat up, banging his head on the tap. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. When they did, they fixed on Marlene, at first in stunned amazement and then in fury. He clambered to his knees and shut off the water.

“You! What the hell are you doing in my home?”

“I'm helping you get ready for court this morning, counselor,” she said brightly.

“You're trespassing. Get out!”

“Gosh, and here you invited me in. That's not trespass.”

“I did not invite you.”

“Yes, you did, the other day. Don't you remember? I thought we had a good understanding. Oh, no! Don't tell me you forget
everything
that went on.”

His eyes shifted. His brow wrinkled with the effort to recall.

“Why don't you take off your clothes and have a nice, soothing shower, and shave. I'll make you some breakfast. We have plenty of time to be in court at nine-thirty.” She flounced out.

She found coffee, but the milk was sour. The bread was stale. Butter had he none, but she found a jar of strawberry jam in the back of the nearly bare refrigerator, which, when scraped of its interesting fungal cultures, did for smearing across the toast. She produced a tall pile of this, perked the coffee, and set the table. In the cabinet above the stove she located the inevitable reserve bottle and poured a shot into a mug of coffee. Next, a quick dump and wipe in the kitchen; not for nothing had she raised three children and a husband of more than usual sluttishness.

He came in dressed and clean-shaven, if red-eyed, smelling of Listerine and some old-fashioned lilac cologne. He looked around the kitchen suspiciously. His glance drifted to the cabinet above the stove.

Observing this, she said, “It's in the coffee. That's all you get until after court.”

He sat down. He took a long swallow of the spiked coffee, closed his eyes, sighed. “Would you mind telling me why you're doing this?”

“I need you. Isn't it nice to be needed? I'm converting you temporarily from a dysfunctional drunk to a functional one, like half the people in the country. After this business is resolved, I'm out of here, and you can finish converting your liver into Silly Putty and die. It's nothing personal. Eat some toast while it's warm.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Eat some anyway. Your body needs calories and carbs. You should take some B vitamins, too.”

He took a piece, nibbled it. Finishing one, he took another, and another. She sipped coffee and watched him. “See? Advice from one who knows.”

He regarded her balefully over his cup. “A functional drunk?”

“Extremely. Why do you drink, by the way?”

“Why do
you?”

“To quell my rage and my sympathies,” she said. “I see cruel, malevolent people getting away with murder all around me and I want to stop them. Not to put too fine a point on it, I want to kill them, and I'm good at it. My options are being either a sober and happy murderess or a slightly stoned mom and businesswoman. I raise and train dogs, and I have three lovely children and a husband. I wish to retain them and their affection, which I can't do if I'm my real self. Now you.”

After a silence he said, “I killed my wife.”

“On purpose?”

He stared at her, his mouth a little open. “Of course not! It was a car accident. We were driving home from a Christmas party in Charleston. The roads were slick and it was foggy. I ran right into the rear of a truck carrying pipe. The pipe came through the window and hit Sheila. She was decapitated. I didn't have a scratch. She was six months pregnant and happy as a horse in clover. It was a really great and loving marriage. That sad enough for you?”

“Yup, that's pretty sad.”

“Can I have another drink?”

“Not until after court, counselor. It's not
that
sad.”

“Tell me something,” he said after his eyes dropped. “How did you get to be such a colossal bitch? Was it heredity, or did you work on it over the years?”

“It took a lot of work. When I started out, butter wouldn't melt in my mouth,” she replied without rancor. “You finished with that? Excellent! Let's go.” This was good, she thought. If he hated her, it might move his mind off its dead center. He might even get mad enough to kick some butt in a courtroom.

*  *  *

It was wide and high, paneled dark and painted white. Its Georgian-glass windows were open to catch any breeze, and through them, besides an actual grassy breeze, there came the sounds of light traffic, a lawn mower, and farther off, someone practicing scales on a trombone. Small town, thought Marlene, this is what it would be like practicing law in a small town. The only discordant note was a television crew—a cameraman, a sound technician, and a reporter with spray-fixed hair and tan blazer. Every seat in the courtroom was occupied, in the main by the sort of people who occupy seats in courtrooms the world over—retirees and idlers of a certain stripe—but there was also a contingent of hard-looking younger men in one of the back rows. Unlike the people in New York courtrooms, she observed, all of these were white. Moses Welch was there, at the defense table, blinking amiably, his moon face untroubled by complex thought or obvious fear. At the prosecution table was a burly man in his late twenties wearing a blond crew cut and a cheap blue suit. On his face was the overly serious expression of a young man who wishes thereby to acquire gravitas. This was, Poole informed Marlene, the state's attorney, Stanley Hawes. Marlene nodded politely to him. He seemed surprised at this, but, after an awkward pause, nodded back. The judge entered. As she rose with the others, Marlene had to stifle a giggle. Judge Bill Y. Murdoch was practically a caricature of a corrupt judge; he could have walked out of a Daumier, lacking only the little round cap that French judges wear. He was pink, plump, beautifully barbered, with a boar's snout, a carnivorous slash of a mouth, and small avid eyes set off by dark eyebrows pointed like chevrons.

The judge spent a few moments speaking with some court officials and a very fat man in a tan uniform, pointed out to Marlene as J. J. Swett, the county sheriff. Murdoch kept looking up at the TV crew. He did not look pleased to see them. After the sheriff and the others had dispersed, Murdoch stared down at Poole and rattled some papers in his hand.

“Ernie, you mind telling me what this is all about.”

“They're motions, Judge,” said Poole, getting to his feet.

“I know they're motions, Ernie. I can read. I mean why are they being filed at this date? I thought we had agreed to a disposition of this case. And you're changing your plea to not guilty?”

“Yes, Judge. What's happened is the defendant has a new counsel, a co-counsel, actually, who has a different idea as to how the defense should proceed.”

Murdoch inspected the papers again. “That's this Keeampi fella?”

Marlene rose. “That's Ciampi, Your Honor. That's me and I'm not a fella.”

A rustle of titters in the courtroom. Murdoch banged his gavel and glared them down and glared particularly at the cameraman, who had switched on his lights.

Murdoch turned his glare onto Marlene. “And what exactly are you doing here, Miss
Ciampi?”

“I'm representing the defendant, Your Honor.”

“He already has counsel.”

“Yes, and he decided to retain additional counsel.”

The dark eyebrows compressed in a scowl. The judge made a summoning motion. Poole, Marlene, and Hawes approached the bench.