Part 8

“You’re what?!” Chief Foster would never be able to put into words how supremely glad he was that he’d decided to hold this conversation in private. Charlie’s public outbursts were something of a legend in town. When she wanted to, she could be a one-woman riot. Last year’s charity bake sale had almost ended in a felony charge.

Foster did not enjoy dealing with Charlie’s histrionics. They led to uncomfortable questions about her relationship to the police force, and why he would even marginally employ a person who found it reasonable to break things when she was put out.

As it was, he was seriously reconsidering the wisdom behind broaching this subject in a moving car. It would have been safer to stick her in the back seat. An extra barrier between them would have been comforting. He knew Charlie would never hurt him, was not afraid of her in the slightest; but she could be unpredictable. And an angry, unpredictable person in the passenger’s seat of your car was never a good thing.

“This shouldn’t be so shocking,” he said, keeping his voice carefully modulated, the way he would when speaking to a rabid dog or violent criminal. “They’ve been on me to retire for three years.”

This was probably the only time in his career Foster would have allowed Charlie to smoke in a cruiser. Given how upset she was, teetering on the edge of tears or total insane violence, a single cigarette would be a fair alternative. Of course the one time he’d permit this, he thought ruefully, the thought never crossed her mind.

“Why now?” she demanded, waving her hands about. “What’s changed? You can’t retire. This town will go to fucking dust in a week!” She was yelling, her face going red. Oddly enough, her anger made her seem younger, almost childlike. Foster was tempted to give her some warm milk and a cookie.

“The new mayor thinks I’m too old for the job. So does the Township Committee. And they’re right,” added Foster, before Charlie could start vowing eternal vengeance. “I don’t have the stamina I did. This job needs someone who has the energy.”

“When did we get a new mayor?” asked Charlie, her voice sharp with suspicion. Despite her earnest anger, Foster laughed.

“Remember that election we had last year? And everyone went out and voted?”

“Oh. That one.” Charlie slumped down in her seat and folded her legs so her knees were pressed against her forehead.

This was a disaster. There was no other word for it. She felt dizzy, sick. The precarious balance of her life had finally tumbled. She should have expected this.

“I’m not leaving you out in the cold,” said Foster, and if Charlie had been anyone else he would have put a hand on her shoulder. “Your job is secure. My replacement will be thoroughly briefed on the situation here, and your essential place in the force.”

“Great,” said Charlie flatly, hugging her legs. “You give him a pamphlet and book it to Florida. Everything will be great. Sunshine and sugar and buttercups.” Foster let it go. They passed a few miles in silence. “Who’s it going to be?” Charlie asked, unable to use the word ‘replacement.’

“Mrs. Meigs-“

“Who the hell is that?” interrupted Charlie, her tone petulant.

“Felicity Meigs is the mayor, Charlie, and head of the Township Committee,” Foster said as pleasantly as possible. “She’s very… committed.”

“She’s a bitch,” summed up Charlie, turning her face to the window. Foster was glad she couldn’t see him smile.

“She may have her own suggestions on the position – in fact, I’m sure she will – but I’d bet good money that Sergeant Bounds will get the job.

Charlie could take brutal killings without blinking, and bizarre occurrences without pause. Apparently, however, it was ridiculous to expect her to handle a change in posts with any sort of grace.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” she shrieked. “Danny Bounds?” He’s a goddamn Boy Scout!”

“He’s a good cop,” said Foster, wondering if he was going to have to pull over. Charlie was waving her skinny arms around with such force that a direct hit could knock him out cold. He stopped the car a few blocks from her home. She didn’t notice, and in all likelihood wouldn’t have noticed their location barring some sort of explosion. Charlie was lost in the ecstasy of rage, and nothing was going to interrupt her fury.

“Danny’s a moron!” she ranted. “He wouldn’t be able to feed himself if he didn’t flap his lips so much! If it’s not written in a goddamn manual it’s completely beyond his comprehension! How am I supposed to work with him?”

Foster realized that when he had this conversation with Bounds later on, he would be hearing virtually the same thing from a slightly different angle. It was a new version of déjà vu – knowing you would experience something again. The thought brought him little comfort. To Charlie, he said,

“Bounds is a smart, solid, ethical cop. He’s lived here his whole life.”

“Yes, and he’s never once noticed that there’s something wrong with this place!” Charlie jumped out of the car, slamming the door behind her as hard as she could. Shouldering her knapsack, she stomped down the street to her home. Even though the sun was rising steadily, Foster followed behind her, keeping the light trained on her figure. She never once looked back. He made sure she was inside her trailer before he drove off.

Foster felt bad. He shouldn’t have, really. Charlie was just another employee, and sometimes you had to give them bad news. She refused any special treatment beside that which was required by her job. She kept their relationship strictly professional.

But the thought of her alone in that dingy trailer with her weapons and her cigarettes and her fury made a lump form in his throat. He was definitely getting too soft for this job.

She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. But then again, he would have been disappointed if she had. It was reassuring to know that some things would never change. Squinting in the light of a new day, George Foster drove home to have his breakfast.