Free Deadline by Gerry Boyle

bowls of chili, another Molson, the wine bottle, and two candles. The candles were lit. The flames wavered as she put the tray between us on the bed.
    â€œThat’s a fire hazard,” I said.
    â€œYou’re a fire hazard,” she said, smiling.
    We sat and ate the chili. It was hot enough with the cumin and red pepper and chili powder to make the beer taste great but not so hot that it scalded your esophagus. We talked between bites.
    â€œI took a funny way over today,” she said. “I think I went too far. I just kept taking signs that said north or east and I ended up in places like Temple and Madrid and Phillips. I almost ended up in Rangeley but I turned around.”
    â€œRangeley is nice,” I said. “We should go there sometime and rent a cabin on the lake. Maybe even leave the cabin for short periods of time. You have beautiful legs. Have I ever told you that?”
    Roxanne pulled the chamois shirt down over her knees and pursed her lips disapprovingly.
    â€œSo what were you doing in Waterford, or can’t you talk about it?”
    â€œSometimes I feel like I can’t think about it,” Roxanne said, suddenly quiet. “Oh, let’s see. Same stuff. This morning I had to go tell this four-year-old girl’s mother that we’re initiating an investigation. The girl came to the daycare center with a bump on her head and bruises on the backs of her legs. It was the bruises that did it. Pattern was too regular.”
    â€œWhat did the mother say?”
    â€œNot much. It’s the second time we’ve looked at a child from the family. Different boyfriend now. The first one was inconclusive. Nobody knew anything. Kid wouldn’t talk about it. This time, I don’t know. The little girl is awful young, even for her age. Scared of her shadow. Chances of her talking about what happened are slim to none.”
    â€œThink the mother will straighten out?”
    â€œIf it’s her? I doubt it. She probably got the same treatment herself. Maybe still gets it. I didn’t see the boyfriend.”
    â€œThey probably don’t care what happens,” I said, picking at the Molson label.
    â€œIt isn’t that they don’t care. I don’t know. So many people in this situation feel like they have no control. They just get kicked around. Lousy jobs, illiterate. When they get a chance to have some power over somebody, they get their revenge.”
    â€œOn a little kid.”
    Roxanne sipped her wine.
    â€œYou know what else? She was pregnant. The mother. Seven months anyway. When she came to the door she was smoking a cigarette.”
    â€œGod,” I said. “Some of these people should be sterilized. The kids don’t have a chance, and their kids won’t either.”
    Roxanne held her wineglass on her lap.
    â€œYou sick of talking about it?” I said.
    She shook her head.
    â€œIt isn’t that. I don’t know. It’s just that I don’t like it when people say things like that. ‘They should be sterilized.’ ‘Take ’em out and shoot ’em.’ It means you’ve stopped thinking about the problem. A lot of people do that and it’s—”
    â€œI know. It’s an easy out. Doesn’t accomplish anything.”
    She leaned over and kissed me softly on the neck.
    â€œYou’re still sexy, even if you’re a reactionary,” she said. “So how’s the paper. Raking any good muck?”
    I managed a bit of a smile.
    â€œNothing too juicy. We had, I guess you could call it, an unfortunate thing happen. Sort of awful, really.”
    She paled.
    â€œNot to me,” I said. “To Arthur. Arthur Bertin.”
    â€œThe little photographer guy who came up to us in that restaurant?”
    â€œYeah. Well, he’s gone. Dead. They found him in a canal down at the mill. Near the mill. Yesterday. He was drowned.”
    â€œMy God,” Roxanne gasped.
    I told her