Allen Steele - Jericho Iteration

The detective nodded as he swerved into the right lane. “I take it your ex isn’t expecting you,” he said, following the long curve of the ramp as it led up the street overpass. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be dropping you off?”

“I guess it’s okay,” I replied as I pointed toward the left; he waited until a street cleaner ’bot rumbled through the intersection, then turned onto Shrewsbury. “She’ll let me in, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s what I’m asking.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Worst thing a cop can do is get caught in the middle of a domestic quarrel. Y’know that when cops get injured in the line of duty, it’s most often while breaking up a household fight? I damn near got my left ear sliced off with a vegetable knife that way, back when I drove a cruiser.”

The intersection of Big Bend was coming up, and I pointed to the left again. “That’s not going to happen here,” I said. “For one thing, she’s not really my ex. I just call her that.”

“Separation?” He lighted his cigarette while making the turn, catching the green light just as it was turning yellow. A blue-and-white passed him in the opposite lane; he flashed his brights at it, and the officer driving the cruiser gave him a brief wave. It was the only other vehicle on the street, despite the fact that Webster was one of the few neighborhoods in the city that wasn’t under dusk-to-dawn curfew. “Sometimes it’s better that way,” he went on. “Why did you guys get separated?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s my job. Besides, I’m just asking …”

His voice trailed off as if anticipating a reply, but I didn’t answer immediately. It had been a few months since I had last visited this neighborhood, and I wanted to look around. Webster Groves had ridden out the quake pretty well, at least in comparison to the parts of St. Louis that had been built on sandy loam or had been undermined by the tunnels of lost clay mines. Some homes had collapsed, a couple of strip malls had fallen down, but overall this quaint old ’burb of midwestern-style frame houses hadn’t been significantly damaged. I didn’t even see any ERA patrols.

“Go a few more blocks, then turn right on Oakwood,” I said.

“Okay.” Farrentino was quiet for a few moments. “Not going to talk about it, are you?”

“Talk about what?”

He shook his head. “You’re going to have to trust somebody sooner or later, Gerry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’ve got your hand stuck in a hornet’s nest. Either you talk to me, or you talk to the colonel or McLaughlin, but eventually you’re going to have to talk to somebody.”

It was true; he knew it, and I knew it. I was treading on hot coals now, and there were damned few people I could count on to get me through this firewalk. Before I could commit myself either way, though, there were a few questions that still had to be cleared up in my own mind. Stopping by for a visit with Marianne, even in the middle of the night, was the first step.

“I’ll let you know, Mike,” I said as he took the turn onto Oakwood. “Right now, all I want to do is get home.”

Home was an old, three-story Victorian on a quiet residential street, a one-hundred-twenty-year-old former farmhouse that had been renovated at least three or four times since the beginning of the last century. Marianne and I had bought the place shortly after we had moved back to St. Louis; if I had known the city was going to get socked by a quake, I might not have signed the mortgage papers, but to my surprise the house had only swayed during New Madrid. The house next door, which was only half as old, had fallen flat, but by some quirk of nature our place had survived, suffering only the loss of the carport and an oak tree in the front yard.

In that respect alone, we had been lucky. The house had made it through the quake; it was the family living inside that had been destroyed.

After Mike Farrentino dropped me off at the curb, I trudged up the walk and climbed the stairs to the front porch. A downstairs light was on, but the upper floors were darkened. Security lamps hidden beneath the porch eaves came on as soon as I approached the door; I still had a key, but I figured it would be polite if I touched the doorplate instead.

“Mari, it’s me,” I said. “Will you get up and come let me in?”

There was a long pause. I turned my face toward the concealed lens of the security camera and smiled as best I could, knowing that she was rolling over in bed to check the screen on the night table. Probably half-asleep, maybe knocking away the paperback thriller she had been reading just before she turned off the light. Unshaven, haggard, hair matted with rain, and wearing drenched clothes, I realized that I must resemble the bad guy in her latest novel.

“Gerry …?” Her voice sounded fuzzy with sleep. “Gerry, what the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story, babe.” I ran a hand through my hair, brushing it away from my face. “I’m sorry I woke you up, but-”

“Are you drunk again?” Her voice, no longer quite so sleepy, was tinged with irritation. “I swear to God, if you’ve been drinking, you can -”

“I’m not drunk, Mari, I promise you. It’s just …” I sighed, half-closing my eyes. “Look, I’m really tired. I’ve just had a helluva night and I can’t go back to my place, so just please let me in, okay?”

Again, another pause, a little longer this time. For the first time since I had asked Farrentino for a lift out here, a disturbing notion crossed my mind: perhaps she was not alone tonight. I hadn’t shacked up with any other women since the beginning of our separation, as tempted as I had been from time to time. The thought had never seriously occurred to me, nor had Marianne told me about any new men in her life. Yet things could have changed; she might have some young bohunk in bed right now, a little lost puppy she had picked up at one of the nearby Webster University hangouts.

I stepped away from the camera to check the end of the driveway next to the house. Only her car was parked there, a power cable running from its battery port to the side of the house. Of course, that alone meant nothing. Postmen walk by every day, and so do joggers in tight nylon shorts.

I heard locks being buzzed open, then the door opened a few inches. “Gerry?” I heard her say. “Are you out there?”

“Right here.” I quickly stepped away from the porch railing. Even when she was practically somnambulant, with her shoulder-length hair in knots and wearing a ragged terrycloth robe, Marianne was one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. Husbands are usually blind to the imperfections of their wives, of course, but that wasn’t the case with Mari; my eyes didn’t lie, and she was still good looking. Thirty years of ofttimes hard living had treated her well; she still looked much the same as she did when I had met her in college. She had regained her figure not long after Jamie’s birth, and even though there were the first hints of gray in her dark hair, she could have passed for twenty-four.

Not that she was in any mood for compliments. “Gerry, what are you doing here?” she repeated. “For chrissakes, I just went to bed … and what are you looking at the driveway for?”

“Just seeing how the car’s holding up,” I said quickly. “You renewed your plates, didn’t you?”

Her expression became puzzled. “You didn’t come all the way out here to check my renewal sticker,” she said. “What’s going on, Gerard?”

She called me Gerard. When she used my full first name, it usually meant she was pissed off. No wonder; for Marianne, getting a full night’s sleep was a serious business, and woe be to the friend, relative, or former spouse who woke her out of bed after eleven o’clock. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time, babe,” I said, “but I need three things from you.”