Jess Walter - Land Of The Blind

She sees the sandwich, the table, the legal pads, the pen, and his hands – a random collection, an idiot's still life.

"Yeah, probably," she says, without a trace of either flattery or flirtation. And when he doesn't say anything else, she turns and leaves.

Alone is easy on the weekends. Usually by this time on Saturday afternoons Caroline Mabry has forgotten that other people even exist, and has settled in front of the television or the computer screen, finally at ease with herself after a week of awkwardness at the office. And so it comes as something of a surprise to see all of these people out on a sunny Saturday, hurrying in and out of their cars, into restaurants and shops. Everything seems so compact and tied down for these people: skis racked on top of their cars, children strapped into safety seats in the back. They all seem to be going someplace, the same place – some active, lively, family place – where everything is buckled down and safe. Compared with these people she feels untethered, flapping all over the place as she wanders through downtown Spokane, the melting snow puddled up on the streets beneath her.

Clark Mason's apartment is in Browne's Addition, a 130-year-old neighborhood of decaying mansions and grand family homes, most of them converted into apartments. She parks in front of Clark's building, an old two-story square, split into four apartments. There are four mailboxes on the paint-chipped front porch; she reads that C. Mason lives in A, on the first floor. One of the other mailboxes is covered with skateboarding stickers and another belongs to a girl named Lisa Miller, who has dotted the i's in both her first and last names with crescent moons.

She peers through the window of Clark's apartment. There is no body. No blood. That's good. Or not. She recognizes the style of furniture as early college – ragged couch, bookshelves made from planks and cement blocks. There are books everywhere, and she feels a twinge, remembers his big hand on the back of her neck, and thinks, Great, I finally meet a guy who actually reads and he's either crazy or a murderer. Or both.

She walks around the side of the house and looks in the windows – a small bathroom with a soap-on-a-rope hanging from the shower, a bedroom with an open futon and a row of suits in a small closet – and then negotiates weeds and old lumber to make her way around to the back, where the porch is clear except for a bowl-shaped barbecue grill and a red picnic table. No blood, no feet sticking out of closets. If Clark Mason did kill someone, he didn't do it here.

When she comes back around to the front of the house, there is a man climbing the porch two steps at a time, an older man in slacks and a polo shirt, maybe sixty, dignified looking, with short gray hair and a day's gray beard. Caroline thinks about the skateboard stickers and the crescent moons and guesses the man isn't here to see those tenants. Sure enough, he walks to Clark's door and pounds on it. "Clark!" he yells. "You in there?"

The man turns around and sees her. He has sharp, washed-out blue eyes and that easy quality that attractive older men have. He also has the most drastically cleft chin that she has ever seen, like someone has taken one shot at splitting his head with a maul.

"Excuse me," she says. "Are you looking for Clark Mason?"

"Yes." The man eyes her suspiciously.

Caroline offers her badge. It takes a second to register with him, and when it does, he reaches out and grabs her forearm. "Oh, my God. Is he okay?"

"He's fine."

"Oh, good." He lets go of her arm. "He left a message on my machine yesterday. He sounded horrible. I was worried."

"Are you his father?"

"No." The man regains his dignified air. "I'm…" But he seems unable to tell her exactly what he is. "I was his campaign manager. Are you sure he's okay?"

"He's fine," Caroline says. "He's down at the station."

"Thank God," he says. "I've been calling him the last two days. Finally I just decided to drive over."

"Over?"

"From Seattle. I live in Seattle. Clark tried to reach me yesterday. He sounded so desperate. I was worried that… I don't know… he would commit suicide or something."

"Actually," Caroline says, "he says he killed someone."

The man's jaw drops.

"We found him in an abandoned building, and when we tried to ask him some questions he said he wanted to confess to a homicide."

"Who?"

"He won't say."

"No," he says. "That's not possible. Clark wouldn't hurt a flea."

Caroline extends her hand. "I'm Caroline Mabry. I'm a homicide detective."

"Richard Stanton."

It takes a moment for the name to register, for Caroline to remember Susan Diehl's reticence about the name of the man she was sleeping with when she and Clark were married. When Caroline had asked Susan if Clark knew the man, what had Susan said? Yeah. He knows him. Clark's campaign manager. That is cold.

"Can I talk to him?" Richard Stanton asks.

"He's down at the station, giving his statement. When he's finished, I'll let him know you asked about him."

"Look, there must be some mistake. It's inconceivable that Clark could hurt anyone, let alone kill someone."

"He said he was 'responsible for someone's death.'"

Stanton looks at the ground, concentrating, and then he slaps his head. "Oh, wait. I know what he's talking about. Jesus. That stupid, sweet kid."

Caroline waits.

"I'm sure it's not what you think."

She smiles. "How do you know what I think?"

"He's not a criminal."

"That may be," she says. "But if he is, and if you know something about it and you withhold information from me, then you might be in as much trouble as he is."

Stanton chews his lip, thinks about it. "Let me talk to him. I can straighten all this out in twenty minutes."

"Tell me what this is about and I'll let you talk to him."

They are at an impasse. He regards her, as if measuring her resolve. "I can't. I'm sorry." Stanton looks away. "Can you take him a note?"

"Sure," she says, and offers a page of her notebook and a pen. "Put your phone number on there too."

He writes something, tears the sheet out and folds it, gives it to her.

"I'll have him call as soon as he's finished with his statement."

"Thank you," he says.

"So what happened?" Caroline points to the small apartment. "Guy runs for Congress and ends up in a shithole like this?" She tries to sound conversational. "That's a little weird, isn't it? Did somebody steal all his money?"

But Richard Stanton is spooked and doesn't want to talk anymore. "Look, my loyalty lies with Clark. I don't want to say anything until I talk to him or to his lawyer."

"Sure," Caroline says. "I understand." But something about the word "loyalty" doesn't sit right with her. She says, "I talked to Susan."

He flinches and looks up at her. Caroline keeps her face still, inscrutable.

Stanton doesn't look away, gives her a practiced smile. "How is Susan?"

"She's great," Caroline says. "Frisky as a colt."

Finally, Stanton has to look down. Caroline waves the piece of paper with the note on it. "I'll make sure Clark gets this. I'm sure he'll appreciate your loyalty."

"Thank you," Stanton mumbles. He starts to leave, hesitates, then walks quickly toward a car parked across the street: a BMW 700 series. He presses the keyless entry and the door chimes for him. It strikes Caroline that the candidate's wife seems to be doing pretty well and the candidate's campaign manager seems be doing pretty well. But the candidate himself is living like a freshman. The BMW pulls away.

In her own car, she opens the note. "He was sick. Nothing you could have done," Stanton has written. "Call me. – Richard."