Princes of Arkwright (13 page)

“
I know you will, you jerk,” she said, smiling at last and wiping a tear away. “Sorry. That was a little awkward.”

“
I’m just glad we got it out of the way,” he said, letting himself fall back onto the couch. He picked up the remote control and turned on the television, helping himself to some of Victoria’s sweet-and-sour chicken.

“
Before you sit down, Victoria,” said Tucker, “be a dear and fetch me a cup of tea.”

Victoria
responded by flinging a pillow at Tucker. The missile narrowly missed his head.

14. CHASTISEMENT

I
t was after midnight when Tucker finally left Victoria’s apartment. The streets were soulless now, and Tucker could clearly hear the sound of his own footsteps as they sloshed through the fallen leaves on the jagged sidewalk.

It was a clear night, though no stars were visible through the
halo of the streetlamps along Station Street. The movable-letter sign in front of St. Michael’s was turned away from the lamps, making it difficult to read, but Tucker could just make it out in the light of the quarter moon: “The angel of the Lord spake these words, and the people lifted up their voice and wept.”

He looked at nothing else on his long walk home, save for the black leaves that his steps kicked into miniature whirlwinds. Now that
Wayne seemed to be a permanent resident of the Adult Correctional Institutions, Tucker’s home was emptier than ever. The stairwell to his apartment was cloaked in darkness for the first time he had ever known. Wayne had always left the light on, but the landlord must have shut it off after coming to survey the damage, and Tucker had no idea where the switch was. He was feeling along the wall when he heard a plastic crinkling sound caused by his own hand.

The noise triggered a reflex that made him pull his hand back violently, hitting himself in the face.
“It’s just the police tape across Wayne’s door,” said Tucker out loud. “I’m freakin’ myself out here.”

He laughed loudly, but abandoned his hunt for the light switch. Clutching the banister, he ascended the stairs one at a time, counting each step despite the fact that he had no idea how many led to his apartment door. A metallic jingle broke the silence as Tucker felt the cold brass of the doorknob. It was locked.

“The landlord must’ve fixed it after the SWAT team kicked it in,” said Tucker, reaching into his pocket and jingling his keys loudly. He fumbled with them for almost a minute before finding the right one and opening his door.

“
Could you help me sir?”  creaked a tired old voice behind him.

Tucker spun around with his arms flailing, smashing his right hand against the door jamb and letting out a strange guttural sound. He fell backwards into his apartment. With the aid of the light from the streetlamps outside his window, he could clearly see the silhouette of a bent elderly woman framed in his doorway.

As she crept toward him, Tucker scurried backwards like a crab, still flailing his arms searching for something to use as a weapon.

“
I’m sorry if I startled you,” said the woman in the same creaky voice. “I’ve been sitting here waiting for you all day.”

Tucker
’s hand found the leg of a wooden tray table. He grabbed at it, causing it to fold up and spill half a bowl of cold soup onto the carpet.

“
The door downstairs said ‘Police Line – Do not cross,’” said the old woman, her creaky voice quavering. “So I came up here and sat down in that chair in the hallway and waited for you to come. I must have fallen asleep.”

“
Who are you?” demanded Tucker, now clumsily wielding the tray table, half as sword, half as shield.

“
My name is Agnes Newton,” she said. “And I was looking for my son.”

Tucker let the tray table fall. He walked to the wall and flicked on the overhead light, revealing a wrinkled saggy face with puffy red eyelids. She was no more than five feet tall and wore an ugly cream-colored sweater and skirt.

“I read in the newspaper that he was arrested,” she continued, “so I drove here. I guess it’s true.”

“
I’m afraid it is,” said Tucker. “He’s being held without bail.”

“
Oh,” she said. “He used to tell me about you. You’re a police officer, aren’t you? Are you the one who arrested him?”

Her saggy, careworn face tightened into a scowl and her beady black eyes stared intently at Tucker. Her arthritic hands clench into little bony fists.

“No,” stammered Tucker, “I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know about it.”

“What will happen to him now?” she asked, as tears welled up in her eyes.

“I’m not sure. But the courts have really been cracking down on meth labs. He should get at least 10 years, especially with the amount they took out of here.”

“He was always such a good little boy,” she said, looking right through Tucker. “He was always so affectionate. When his father died, that all changed. I should have done a better job with him. I guess I just didn’t know how.”

Her bloodshot eyes looked pleadingly at Tucker, who just looked back at her and said nothing.

“
Well, I should go,” she said with a creaky sigh. “I suppose it’s very late.”

Tucker said nothing to the woman, but let her leave his apartment. When she was halfway down the stairs, he shut his apartment door and watched from the window until she finally appeared on the front step. She struggled her way behind the wheel of a yellow Chrysler Imperial parked across the street and drove off.

Tucker had difficulty sleeping. Every creaking floorboard was a thunderclap. Every car engine jerked him violently out of slumber. When the first rays of sunrise came through the blinds, he finally surrendered to exhaustion and fell into a deep sleep.

It was almost 11 when he finally awoke. He had just finished showering when he heard a pounding on his door.

“What now?” he said, awkwardly feeling for the sleeves of a green plaid bathrobe. The pounding on the door got louder.

“
I’m coming,” yelled Tucker. “I’m coming. At least they’re not kicking it down this time.”

He swung open the door and looked into the scowling, livid face of Aly Mc
Laughlin.

“
What the hell is wrong with you?” she said.

“
Oh, God,” said Tucker, turning around and letting himself fall onto the sofa. “How did you find out where I live?”

“
I got a call from Victoria this morning,” said Aly, walking into the apartment and standing right in front of Tucker. “She told me you went there last night and tried to kiss her. You call that ‘taking it slow?’”

“
Calm down, Aly,” said Tucker. “You’re actually starting to get a little color in your cheeks. It’s not very becoming.”

“
And here I was actually starting to think you weren’t that bad,” said Aly. “And you go and throw yourself at her after the day she had.”

“
Can I get you anything, Aly?” said Tucker, jerking his thumb toward the kitchen. “I think I have some Pop-Tarts somewhere.”

“
You really think it’s funny, don’t you?” said Aly. “Do you care about anybody but yourself?”

“
Enough!” yelled Tucker. “I already hate myself enough for the both of us, OK? And how did you find out where I live?”

“
I’m a librarian,” she said. “I looked it up.”

“
Did Victoria tell you how we left it?” asked Tucker.

“
No,” said Aly. “I was so mad I hung up and came right over.”

“
Well, if you had continued to talk to her, she probably would’ve told you that it’s all cool now and we’re going to be friends.”

“
You haven’t changed at all since high school, have you?” said Aly.

“
What do you want from me?” yelled Tucker. “I said I’m sorry. Victoria and I are cool. Why are you still mad at me?”

“
Because you’re a self-centered little weasel,” said Aly, pushing her face right against Tucker’s. “And I can’t understand why any angel would be protecting you.”

Tucker frowned hard at the soup stain on his carpet and said nothing.

“In fact, I don’t think he’s an angel at all,” said Aly. Tucker looked up. “An angel would have more important things to do than hang around with the likes of you.”

“
You’ve seen what he can do,” said Tucker. “All those miracles and everything. He must be here for a reason.”

“
Tucker,” said Aly, walking to the door. “I haven’t seen anything miraculous. Why don’t you do Victoria a favor and just stay out of her life.”

“
I’m not a bad person,” said Tucker. “I just screwed up last night. I just misread the moment. Come on. We were starting to get along so well. I really thought we were even friends.”

“
We’re not friends,” she said. And with that, she slammed his door shut. Tucker sat with his head in his hands as he listened to her steps trail off down the stairs.

15. AGNES NEWTON

T
ucker walked slowly down Station Street, stopping occasionally to kick the spots where the roots of the red maples had pushed their way out of the sidewalk. He looked up at the bright leaves, then down at the decaying maroon leaves, then up at the clouds whizzing by, then down at the potholes that pockmarked the road. He looked everywhere, except into the faces of the people who passed him on the sidewalk.

He saw the blue flashing lights of a police car reflected in the window of a storefront as he came around a curve in the road and spotted four police cruisers, along with a fire engine and ambulance in front of
St. Michael’s Church. Completing this contingent of municipal machinery was a black station wagon marked “Rhode Island Medical Examiner.”

“
Rochelle!” shouted Tucker, clinging to the iron rails of the fence surrounding the churchyard. “What happened?”

“
Looks like a suicide, Tuck,” said Rochelle, walking down the front steps of the church and looking over her shoulder at the twin towers rising behind her. “Caucasian female. 80 years old. She hanged herself in the belfry some time early this morning. Pastor found her.”

“
You got an ID?” asked Tucker.

“
Yeah, her purse was nearby. Her driver’s license says ‘Agnes Newton.’”

“
Oh my God,” whispered Tucker, staring open-mouthed at the tower that housed the bell.

“
I’m sorry, Tuck,” said Rochelle. “Did you know her?”

Tucker was still staring up at the tower when he saw the bell start to swing. His blanched expression and open mouth made Rochelle spin around just as the bell let out a cold dismal clang.

“What’s happening?” stammered Tucker, who was shaking and grabbing at Rochelle.

“
Tuck, it’s OK,” whispered Rochelle. “It’s noon. The bell rings every day at this time. It’s called the ‘Angelus.’ It’s automatic. Haven’t you ever noticed?”

“
No,” said Tucker, swallowing with difficulty. “I’m not Catholic.”

“
Glad I wasn’t still up there when that thing rang,” said Rochelle. “Marcus still is. He’ll probably be deaf for the rest of the day.”

Tucker still stared, blanched, at the belfry.

“I’m sorry, Tuck,” repeated Rochelle. “Did you know the victim?”

“
No,” he answered. “Not really. Her son was the one running that meth lab.”

“
Newton!” said Rochelle. “I thought that name rang a bell. Oh my God, Tuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“
It all right,” said Tucker. “I only spoke to her once. She was in my building last night. Scared me to death. She was sitting in the dark when I came home.”

“
Did she seem despondent?”

“
Well, I don’t know,” said Tuck. “It happened kind of quickly.”

“
Did she say anything that made you think she might do this?”

“
No,” said Tuck, taking his stare off the belfry long enough to pull his eyebrows together and look Rochelle in the eye.

“
Tuck, you know I have to ask,” she said. “What time was she there?”

“
A little after midnight,” said Tucker. “She said she read about Wayne in the paper and wanted to find out if it was true. She didn’t want to cross the police tape, so she waited in a chair outside my apartment and fell asleep. I guess I woke her when I came home.”