"I had one of the records deputies burn me copies of Wildcraft'; felony court transcripts in the last two years," she said. "I brought them home for some light reading tonight. Besides the huge income one thing you make being a deputy is an enemy or two."
"One of those fringe benefits."
"I wonder why nobody calls them fringe anymore."
"I call 'em fringe," said Tim, snapping out of it.
"Prove it."
"Fringe."
"You do. Very good."
"Very not good?"
She smiled and leaned forward, right in his face. "Okay, Mr. Negative."
Tim laughed and pinched her nose and Merci asked him for a kiss. When he said no, she faked a pout and he gave in. His hands were soft and warm on her cheeks. It seemed like he got heavier every day, but still, she loved him on her lap, right up there close where she could smell his breath and his hair and touch the small parts of his perfect body. When she looked at Tim, then thought about her job, she wondered what happened to people. To start out so sweet and end up so dismal. She'd seen a lot of what the world does to people, and what they do to the world, but it had never engaged her sympathy until Tim Jr.
Precious little man, she thought: what will it do to you?
"First week I worked the jail an inmate promised to kill me when he got out," said Clark.
"You never told me that."
Which was typical of her father: he'd rarely spoken about his work when she was a girl, and he rarely spoke of it after he retired. Merci wondered at how different they were with regard to their work. For Clark, being a deputy was just a job. For Merci it was a passion. Clark left the job at headquarters. Merci dreamed it. Clark hardly talked about his work at all. But work was just about all Merci talked about. She understood that she'd gotten her drive and enthusiasm from her mother. Her stubbornness and general misanthropy, too. And she understood how difficult it must have been for them, such opposites in so many ways.
"It was strange," he said. "This guy was in on an assault charge. He was a biker, one of the Hessians, a skinny guy with red hair and freckles and a straggly little beard. Smitty. Smitty Cole. Cole took one look at me and started working me. Dissing me, you'd call it now. And he did a good job of it-he saw right through me. He called himself the Prophet, claimed that God told him what other people were thinking. He was maybe twenty-six or — seven, I was twenty-one or — two. Talking trash about me, talking trash about the job, talking trash about your mother. It got directly under my skin and one day I lost my temper and hit him in the stomach. Then across the chin. Hard. Knocked him clean out."
Merci's father suddenly took on a new respect in her eyes. "You punched him out?"
"Well, yes."
"That's great, Dad."
He looked at her with mild disbelief, an expression that she'd known as far back as she could remember.
"Back then, things were a little looser in the jail. We didn't pit gladiators like the guards up at Corcoran, but you know, it was tit for tat."
"And you'd been tatted."
"That was the only time I ever struck an inmate."
"Well, I'm glad you clocked the creep. When he woke up, he said he'd kill you?"
Clark glanced at Tim on her lap. "A few days later. Looked at me in the mess hall, pretty much rabid, and told me he'd, ah… deal with me when he got out. I believed him. Maybe because I was young. Bui it registered in a way I didn't like. Maybe because he'd said other things that were true."
Merci waited for the punch line, which was fairly obvious, but she wanted to hear details, if there were any.
"Died in a drug deal gone bad," said Clark, forking the chicken onto plates. He glanced at Tim again, then at Merci. "Someone… removed his head area with a ten-gauge item made for waterfowling."
"Bummer. Hungry, Tim?"
"Not hungry."
"Too bad, little man. Let's eat!"
After dinner she poured a substantial scotch and water and turned on the living room TV for Tim. He liked Teletubbies — a PBS children's program that Merci considered hallucinogenic but harmless. It was about cuddly creatures with televisions implanted in their stomachs living in tunnels under a phony golf course that grew big plastic flowers and had radio broadcasts coming out of evil-looking speakers. The Teletubbies themselves scurried around like potbellied oldsters, squeaking to one another. Cottontail rabbits loitered on the greens. The accompanying music was repetitious and infantile in a bizarre way and Merci figured the creators were '60s acid casualties with fat grants from the Corporation. Then she tried to remove this idea from her head, just another useless and probably inaccurate opinion. So many of them. She watched the Teletubbies go to bed in their underground sleeping pods and saw how this absolutely fascinated her son.
What could it hurt? You've got tubbies and I've got scotch.
She sat on the floor beside him and stroked his back while he watched. She wouldn't let him see the next show, which sent him into a tantrum-Tim's new reaction to being denied even the smallest desire. Merci figured it was a phase.
Tim bawled it out and she let him, then took him into his room and read him three of his favorite stories. He fell asleep on her lap in the rocking chair and she carried him to his bed.
She showered and put on a light robe, then came back to Tim's room and sat in the corner in the dark. The remnants of the ice cubes clinked rhythmically in the glass as she rocked. The sweet aroma of the orange blossoms wavered in on the warm breeze. She closed her eyes and said the same prayer she said every night, to a God she believed in but wasn't sure she trusted.
Watch over him. Watch over him. Watch over him.
In the living room she turned down the volume on the police band radio, already set to the Sheriff's frequency, down low. Listening to it was a holdover from her old days on patrol, the days when every crime seemed to require her attention, on duty or off.
She sat forward on the living room sofa, some of Archie Wildcraft's court testimony spread across the coffee table, the lampshade tilted out to throw light over her shoulder. The windows were still open and the white tip of a cat tail twitched from a shadow on the seat of Clark's old recliner.
Then she started with the criminal felony cases, going back a year.
The People versus Vomastic Washington, multiple homicide, responding deputies Archibald Wildcraft and Damon Reese. Archie testified that he'd found the defendant hiding in a bathroom cabinet a the crime scene. Conviction to Ryan Dawes, two life sentences to be served consecutively, appeal filed and pending.
The People versus Stephanie Mai, attempted murder of Marilyn Mai, her identical twin sister, wiretap testimony from Deputy 2 Archibald Wildcraft. Apparently, Archie had been assigned to an undercover sting at the sisters' favorite Garden Grove disco. He'd gotten some incriminating statements from her. Conviction to Lisa Musick twelve years, appeal filed and pending.
The People versus Felix Mendez, possession of illegal narcotics conspiracy to distribute narcotics, possession of illegal automatic weapons, attempted murder of a police officer. All of this grew from a domestic disturbance call, responding officers Archibald Wildcraft and Damon Reese again. Reese was about to take a bullet from Mendez's hidden derringer when Archie shot him through the hand, kicked away the gun and cuffed the defendant. When the prosecutor asked if Archie considered himself a hero for saving his partner's life, Archie said he was just a deputy doing his job. Conviction to Ryan Dawes life in prison without parole for Mendez: strike three.
Merci scanned back through the Mendez transcript and saw what she thought she'd see: Mendez was heavily implicated in La Erne- the Mexican Mafia-though he steadfastly denied knowing anything about the organization. Dawes presented testimony that Mendez was a ranking member of La Erne, having earned his way up by dealing narcotics and handling enforcement, intimidation and murder contracts Mendez's attorney aired a symphony of objections, the judge sustained half and overruled the others, allowing Mendez to deny it all.