wipes a tear from her eye.
‘Come on,’ I say, leading her down the long row of brightly lit carnival booths, a sanitized version of the sleazy carnies that used to camp on the edge of town when I was a boy. The barkers shout their come-ons, but their hoarse voices scarcely penetrate the confusion surrounding my little girl. And yet, as sad as she is, I know that the grief Annie feels over the loss of Libby as a potential mother figure is tempered by hope that Caitlin has reappeared for a very different reason than covering a news story. If it weren’t for my fear for Tim Jessup, I might be unable to think about anything else myself.
When the first rocket detonates over Louisiana, filling the sky over the river with sizzling arcs of blue and white light, it takes a couple of seconds for the report of the explosion to reach us. When it does, every muscle in my abdomen clenches, as though steeling against a bullet. This, I realize, is sympathetic fear. My daughter’s hand is in mine, love is near, life is good. But somewhere not far away, Tim Jessup is risking all he has to right what he believes is an unendurable wrong. Please be careful, I intone in a private prayer. Don’t try to be a hero. My father never spoke much about his service in Korea, but one thing he did share has been borne out by my own experience: Heroism is sacrifice.
Most of the heroes I’ve known are dead.
It took all my willpower not to call or text Tim once my mother got Annie to bed. That was at ten thirty. The following hour passed like a car stuck in low gear, and I fought the urge to swallow a couple of shots of vodka to help me endure the wait. When it finally came time to leave, my mother saw me off without any question about my destination. She probably assumed I was seeing a woman, and I did not disabuse her of the notion. The only difficulty I had getting out was sneaking a pistol past her. In the end I opted to slip my short-barreled .357 Magnum into my briefcase and carry it right by her to the car.
Now I’m cruising down Washington Street with a half hour to kill before my meeting with Tim. I’m only a couple of miles from the cemetery–as the crow flies–so I have some time to ponder why he thinks I need a weapon when we meet.
Or so I think until my cell phone rings. The caller isn’t Tim, as I expected, but Libby Jensen. She’s so upset that at first I can’t make out what she’s saying. For a moment I labor under the mistaken impression that she’s upset about our relationship, but then it registers–as it should have in the beginning–that she’s calling about Soren.
‘They arrested him!’ she sobs. ‘They say he has to spend the night in jail. They think he was driving the car.’
‘Whoa, whoa, slow down. What happened?’
‘There was a wreck,’ Libby says, her voice still riding the rapids of hysteria. ‘I’m not sure what happened. Soren was in a car that hit another car. The police say he was driving, but Soren says he wasn’t.’ Libby’s voice drops to a frantic whisper. ‘Penn, he’s so drunk I don’t know whether to believe him or not. At least I hope he’s drunk. They might have found some drugs. They won’t tell me. I’m so scared. You know what Mackey said the last time he got in trouble.’
On the occasion to which Libby is referring, Soren was busted with Lorcet Plus and Adderall. On my advice Libby hired Austin Mackey, a onetime classmate and the former district attorney, to represent him. At Mackey’s suggestion–and against all my better judgment–I used my influence with the present district attorney, Shadrach Johnson, to try to ensure that Soren’s case never went to trial. Mackey turned out to be right. After I promised my old political nemesis enough favors, the drug arrest was removed from Soren’s record altogether. If Libby wasn’t in love with me by that point in our relationship, the final transformation was completed that day. I can date my ultimate decision that things would not work out between us to that day as well.
‘Have you left yet?’ Libby asks, the pitch of her voice rising. ‘Where are you? Are you on your way?’
‘Have they booked him?’ I ask, glancing at my watch. Twenty-two minutes till midnight. ‘Have they charged him?’
‘I don’t know! I can’t even think. What will they do to him?’
What they probably should have done last time, I reply silently. Mackey’s final advice to Libby and Soren was that the boy never get within a hundred yards of an illegal drug while he was in Adams County, because the next time he was caught, Shad Johnson would throw the book at him. That day has come, and I feel Libby grasping at me like a drowning woman. But even if I could somehow blunt Shad’s vindictiveness, I can’t go on enabling Soren to ruin his life, and his mother’s with it.
‘Libby, you’ve got to calm down,’ I say in a steady voice. ‘You can’t help Soren if you can’t hold it together.’
‘Tell me you’re on your way,’ she says with single-minded urgency. ‘They’re going to take him to the cell in a minute!’
Damn. I close my eyes briefly as my car drifts across Franklin Street and heads into the Victorian part of town. ‘Libby, I want you to listen to me. I will come down there and try to help, but you can’t—’
She gives a plaintive moan that sounds like the preface to an emotional plea, but then without warning the sound shatters into a shrill scream of terror.
‘What is it?’ I yell. ‘What happened?’
There’s a rattle that sounds like Libby’s cell phone skating across a tile floor. I hear confused shouts, several slaps, then a shriek followed by a bellow of rage and anguish. The phone rattles again, and then I hear sobbing. Libby has the phone. After twenty seconds of gulping air, she begs me in a torrent of words to come to the station. I wait until she runs out of air, then ask again what happened.
‘They’re beating him up! They maced him.’
I try to picture this scene, but I can’t see the Natchez police beating a nineteen-year-old kid without some physical provocation. ‘Did Soren do something first?’
‘He hit one of the cops,’ she whispers. ‘They were dragging him back to the cell, really being rough, and he lashed out at somebody. It was just a reflex! Penn, help me. Please! I’m so scared they’re going to do something terrible to him, or put him back there with somebody horrible. If you ever cared for me at all, please, come now.’
A minute ago, I would have said nothing could keep me from meeting Tim at the stroke of midnight, but guilt is a powerful motivator. With a silent Goddamn it, I wrench the wheel right on Madison Street and speed northward to the police station.
It’s thirteen minutes after twelve when I finally squeal out of the police station parking lot, my hands shaking with anger and fear. Libby is shouting after me, but not as loudly as her son is screaming mindless profanity in the drunk tank. The police found half a pound of grass in the trunk of the car Soren was driving, but I’m almost positive he was high on crystal meth. Soren is essentially a gentle kid, not prone to violence, but when he drinks or ingests any drug but marijuana, his anger at his father surfaces, and he gets unpredictable.
A passenger in the car that he T-boned had to be evacuated by helicopter from St Catherine’s Hospital to University Medical Center in Jackson. Worse than that–for Soren, at least–was the poke he took at the cop who was trying to drag him from the booking area to the cellblock.
