The press had yet to arrive. They would have heard the police call by then, but Portland was still a small market, and the TV stations worked skeleton shifts at night. Archie imagined them pulling on their news slickers, racing to the scene, prepared to go live with the story for as long as they could wring the drama from it. It would start all over again.
Archie heard the man behind him before he saw him. A few footsteps, and then the silhouette of a fat man appeared in the dark. Archie didn’t even need to turn his head. He recognized the faint smell of liquor and stale cigarettes.
“Quentin Parker,” Archie said.
“Heard you caught yourself another one.”
“You working this?”
“I’ve got a kid with me,” Parker said. “Derek Rogers. Plus, Ian Harper’s on his way.”
“Ah.”
Parker snorted. “You think he’s a twit now. Wait until you meet him.”
The two stood side by side for a long moment, watching the Chris-Craft, the lights, the black river. Finally, Archie spoke. “You never came to see me in the hospital. Everyone else was scrambling to sneak into my room, begging for interviews, sending flowers, impersonating doctors. Not you.”
The big man shrugged. “Never got around to it.”
“It was appreciated,” Archie said.
Parker fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag. It was tiny in his hand, the tip glowing orange in the darkness. “You’re going to be famous again.”
Archie looked up at the sky. The moon was a smear of light behind the cloud cover. “I’m thinking of moving to Australia.”
“Watch yourself, Sheridan. Those stories Susan did have stirred things up. The whole ‘tragic hero’ thing goes over well, but pretty soon they’ll want more. The pills. Your weekly sit-downs with Gretchen Lowell. We’ll eat you alive for that shit. The mayor, Henry, they can only do so much to protect you. If the Fourth Estate smells blood, there’s gonna be a bloodbath.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Bad call, huh?” Parker said, bringing his fist to his mouth, the cigarette a tiny lantern.
“What?” Archie asked.
“Becoming a cop,” he said, looking at the cigarette in his hand. “Should’ve been an academic.” He ashed the cigarette with a delicate flick of his big wrist. “Taught school somewhere.”
“Too late now,” Archie said.
“Me. I wanted to be a car salesman.” He looked into the distance and smiled. “Oldsmobiles.” He gave Archie a shrug and studied the cigarette. “Got sidetracked as a copy boy. Tenth grade. Nineteen fifty-nine. Never went to college. They used to print the paper right there. In the basement. I used to love the smell of the ink.” He brought the cigarette to his mouth again, took a drag, and exhaled it. “These days? Paper won’t hire someone for an unpaid internship unless they’ve got an Ivy League degree.”
“Times change.”
“How’s our girl?”
Archie looked up at the office. “Pissed.”
“She’s a hell of a kid.”
“Can I have a piece of gum?” Susan asked. She was in a back room in the patrol office with Henry and Claire. There was a desk in the room, and a task chair. The walls were covered with nautical charts. The desk was stacked with black binders with the city seal on them, and white and pink pieces of paper that appeared to be various forms and reports, boxes checked, explanations filled in, stamped, certified, signed. It was a man’s office. Color photographs of him hung on the walls in cheap diploma frames. Fishing. Standing around with other men in green uniforms. Formal Sears portraits with the family. He had a mustache and an exuberant expression. In some of the more recent pictures, he had a beard. To the left of the desk was a four-shelf metal bookcase, stacked with books about marine law and Oregon history. On top of the bookcase was a jar of fat pink bubblegum.
“Sure.” Claire plucked a piece of gum from the jar and handed it to Susan.
Susan unwrapped it and put it in her mouth. Her hands were still sore from the tape, and her wrists were raw. The gum was sugary and hard. “It’s stale,” Susan declared sadly.
“Just a few more questions,” Claire said. “Before your mother breaks down the door.”
“My mom’s here?” Susan asked, surprised.
“Outside,” Henry said. “They practically had to put her in a half-nelson to keep her out of here while we wrapped up.”
Bliss was there. Bliss had come and was waiting for her. It was something a mother would do. Susan imagined the cops having to deal with her. Bliss was probably bossing everyone around, threatening to go to the Citizen’s Police Action Committee. Susan smiled happily.
“What?” said Claire.