‘We’re safe without them. There are hundreds of townspeople here,’ Mac said.
‘I didn’t like Clamp’s faraway look, down by the river,’ Jen said. ‘It’s like he wasn’t engaged with reality.’
Mac held out his hand. He’d washed them both as best he could in the river, but the burns were red and raw and they throbbed.
Jen handed him her recorder. ‘It’s set to the proper position. Your fingers will work enough to turn it on?’
‘This is frickin’ nuts,’ April said, getting out of the car. She pulled the seat forward so Jen could climb out the back.
‘Why are you getting out?’ Mac asked April.
‘In case your burned hands need help with that frickin’ switch,’ she said. She handed him four Advil tablets. ‘Remember what Maggie said: talk fast.’ She grinned and walked off with Jen.
He looked across the lawn as he chewed the tablets. Almost all the trustees were up on the dais, along with the city engineer. There was one empty chair, presumably for Luther Wiley. Understandably, there was none for Mac.
Clamp had climbed the stairs to the dais and now sat to the right of the lectern, stiff in a white shirt, subdued tie and dark suit – and perhaps stiff from worry that everything he’d kept hidden was about to burst forth into the sunshine.
Mac looked again at the empty chair on the dais. He’d heard that honoring Clamp had been Luther Wiley’s idea. The late newspaperman, Horace Wiggins, might have approved of the honor as well. Mac imagined that, given recent events, they’d both change their votes, if it were somehow possible.
Two minutes later, at precisely two o’clock, the high school’s football coach – the grand marshal of the parade that would have taken place had it not rained – stepped up to the lectern. He welcomed everyone to yet another magnificent Fourth of July celebration in the finest town on the planet. Only a few people set down their beers and sodas to applaud.
‘This is one of our saddest Independence Days,’ the coach said. ‘Our mayor, Mac Bassett, perished this morning in a fire at the Bird’s Nest.’
‘Oh, please,’ Maggie said, from the front seat.
There were few gasps. Most had already heard. April and Maggie had been right; they’d come to hear more.
‘The state fire marshal is investigating this tragic turn of events,’ the coach went on, ‘and will issue a report. The best thing we can do now is to keep Mac’s memory in our hearts and get on with celebrating our freedom and good fortune to live in such a marvelous town.’
‘Stupid bastard,’ Maggie said.
The coach went on to make announcements about the day’s festivities, most especially the fish fry over at the VFW and later, the fireworks after dusk, east of town along the river. He sat down to disappointed silence. People knew about the fried fish and the fireworks; they wanted to know how Mac Bassett had caught fire.
The county engineer spoke briefly about future road and sewer improvements before turning to bigger concerns over the new dam south on the Royal River. ‘I know many of you are worried about the rising water,’ he said. ‘The Army Corps has assured me it’s the result of the spring’s abnormally high snow melt. They’re watching it closely, and will open the south dam if needed to alleviate any risk of flooding.’
Mac looked below the dais. April stood next to Jen, in the middle of the line of reporters just below the lectern. Both were muddy from the river.
The city engineer cleared his throat, about to introduce the next speaker, who was supposed to have been Mac.
It was time. He clambered out of the back seat.
Maggie smiled up through the open car door. ‘Whip off that straw hat and give ’em a Will Rogers cowboy wave, so everybody can see what burned-off hair on a dirty dead man looks like.’
He grinned, took off the straw hat and started waving it as he crossed the lawn. A murmur of shocked voices built into shouts as he approached the dais. Most everyone was scrambling to stand up – many were snapping cell phone pictures. It wasn’t a welcome that had gotten them all to their feet; they wanted good views of Mac Bassett rising from the dead.
He climbed the stairs. Everyone on the dais looked wide-eyed, save for Clamp Reems. He was looking south along Second Street, thinking for sure about one particularly unstable tree down by the rising river, and what it might lift up to reveal.
Mac took care to smile at the chief deputy. Clamp was trapped by the eyes of hundreds of people; he couldn’t leave.
Mac stepped up to the microphone and waved a raw, pink and blackened hand.
EIGHTY
‘Welcome, everyone!’ His amplified voice reverberated not quite simultaneously off the many brick fronts facing the square, as though several Mac Bassetts had returned to taunt those who’d felt relief at his death.
A few people thought to applaud. Most had simply gone silent, anxious to hear directly from the mud-caked, burned man who was supposed to be dead.
‘And an especially big welcome to you, Clamp Reems,’ Mac said, half turning to face the chief deputy. ‘I intend to make this the second most important day of your life.’
The killer stared into the crowd, impassive.
No matter. Mac would soon enliven him. He turned back to face the people on the lawn.
All stood frozen, waiting, except for one frail old man with a.35mm camera dangling on a cord around his neck. He was laboring forward through the crowd, stepping haltingly, apparently intent on getting to the front to take a picture. In spite of the heat, he wore a sweatshirt and a windbreaker two sizes too large. His sweat-stained canvas hat was pulled down tight to shield his face from the sun.
‘When I was elected just a few short months ago,’ Mac said, ‘I looked forward to this day as my first chance to address you as your mayor. I thought of the words I was going to say – words of thanks, words of optimism, words of hope about the future of this town.’
People were turning, distracted by the old man’s precarious progress. He’d paused for breath, teetering. The lower part of his face, clean-shaven, was sallow and unhealthy looking, as though it hadn’t felt the sun for years. His shoulder looked barely wide enough to support the strap of the small camera bag bouncing against his side.
‘I’ve decided…’ Mac said softly, ‘… to say none of that.’
Everyone looked back at the lectern. They’d heard something going bad in the way Mac lowered his voice.
‘Damn it, Bassett!’ someone yelled. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘You mean to these?’ he shouted, holding up his blistered hands. ‘Or to Betty Jo Dean’s head?’
A hundred people gasped. Mac smiled, faking a calm he didn’t feel, and pressed on. ‘Today we’re here to focus on Clamp Reems.’
A few people, confused, began to applaud that. They quickly stopped when no one else joined in. The others had heard the tension in Mac’s voice, and were straining to hear more.
Except for the old man. He’d started up again on his snail’s journey toward the dais.
‘Ah, but I can’t do Clamp justice,’ Mac said. ‘Let me yield to Luther Wiley.’ He held Jen’s voice recorder a foot from the microphone and switched it on.
‘Hell, yes, Clamp killed Betty Jo,’ Luther’s voice boomed from the speakers at the sides of the dais. ‘There isn’t a fool in this town doesn’t know that, or at least suspect it. I witnessed nothing firsthand, mind you, but my uncle, and Doc and Horace, and even that numb-nutted Randy White, were all there at the funeral home when they brought her in. Doc was taking too much time with the probe, trying not to disfigure her-’
The old man had tottered to the front row and was reaching into his camera bag when he stopped like he’d been struck by lightning. He was staring at Jen Jessup like she was a ghost.