The Devils Punchbowl

This patent lie brings another rush of guilt, but there’s nothing to be done other than to let things take their course.

Libby bends, hugs Annie, then gives my wrist a quick squeeze and musters an almost genuine smile. With an awkward wave she turns and joins the flow of the crowd.

Annie stares solemnly after her diminishing figure, as though watching the departure of a family member she might never see

again. After Libby disappears, Annie turns and looks up with wide eyes. “Daddy, I saw Caitlin here.”

A strange numbness fills me, slowing my responses. “Really? Where did you see her?”

“She was talking to a man with a camera. She was far away, but I know it was her.”

I'm not sure how to respond, but I don'’t like to lie to my daughter. “I saw her too, baby.”

Annie’s eyes widen still more. “Did you talk to her?”

“She interviewed me a few minutes ago, with some other reporters.”

Annie nods slowly, taking this in. “I miss Libby, Dad.”

“I do too.”

When no explanation follows, she says, “Did ya’ll break up?”

God, she’s perceptive.

“What makes you ask that?”

“I don'’t know. Did you?”

I take Annie’s hand, then kneel and look into her eyes. “We did. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about it first.”

She looks back at the place where Libby vanished, but all that remains is a crowd of laughing revelers.

“She’s really sad,” Annie says, looking back at me with damp eyes. “I am too. I knew something was different.”

“I'm sad too, baby.”

“I think she’s scared about Soren. Do you think so?”

“I think Soren has some problems. Lots of teenagers do. But that’s for Soren and Libby to work out.”

Annie 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.

CHAPTER

9

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.