Darkness the Color of Snow

by Thomas Cobb

  “OK. Finish your cigarette. Then I’m going to recuff you behind your back, and we’re going up to the police station in Warrentown and check in, then I’m taking you back to Lydell. Anything you tell me before we get you a lawyer is admissible in court. Remember that.”

  “I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.”

  “Yeah,” Gordy says. “I kind of figured. It was leaving the scene that has gotten you into all this trouble, and you are in trouble.”

  “That wasn’t an accident. I had to do that.”

  “Hit him?”

  “No. Run.”

  “What do you mean, you ‘had to do it.’ ”

  “I went into a skid. I mean I hit something, and the car spun on me. I was trying to stay on the road.”

  “You hit something?”

  “Yeah. Something.”

  “You didn’t know you had hit someone?”

  “No, man. I saw a guy. I mean I didn’t see him, then I did. Then I didn’t. I kept going. Later, I saw the busted headlight and all that. Like the next day some guy told me a guy got hit on 417. I still didn’t know I had hit the guy.”

  “You hit a guy, and you didn’t know it?”

  “Not until later. I figured it out. Then I knew I was in a lot of trouble. I was scared. I ditched the car.”

  RONNY STICKS HIS head inside the door of the police station. He catches Pete’s eye and raises his eyebrows, a question. Is Gordy here? Pete shakes his head. Ronny steps into the office and shuts the door behind him. “What’s going on, Pete?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Bored. There’s nothing to do all day and all night.”

  “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “Studying. Taking tests. She’s busy.”

  “That’s too bad. She ought to be some good entertainment.”

  Ronny starts to say something then thinks better of it. Then, “What’s going on here?”

  “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you that we think we found the vehicle. A white Lexus. A beater. Busted-­up front end. That sound right to you?”

  “Maybe. I thought Camry, but Lexus could be right. You find the driver?”

  “Can’t tell you. Can’t tell you and I don’t know. I got to hit the crapper and Sue is off on an Edna’s run. Come on in and sit at the desk for a bit. Gordy’s off to Warrentown. You’ll be safe for a bit. Don’t answer the phone.”

  Ronny sits down at Pete’s desk, not even wanting to look at his own desk. The chair’s nice and warm. Pete is like a furnace, pumping out heat at a steady rate. The office has begun to look good to him again. When he first signed on as a probationary patrolman, the office had been strange, exotic and wonderful, and it was a new world, and it was his. It’s starting to look that way again. In two more days he will be back to work, and he promises himself to never again wish he weren’t working.

  Pete keeps the day-­watch desk neat and orderly, not like he and John do. It’s almost bare except for the blotter and a ­couple of pens. And in the blotter is a pink memo. He reads it. “Working on truck at Baxter’s Garage, evenings 12/16–12/24, with owner permission—­P. Stablein, B. Cabella, two others. Out by midnight.”

  He reads it over twice. Ronny guesses that Stablein and Cabella are trying to get Stablein’s truck on the road, no doubt. So they’re still at it. Matt’s gone, but Stablein and Cabella are going to keep on cruising. The truck has never run in the time he has known those guys. It’s always been something in the background, like the mythical job or girlfriend.

  The phone rings and he reaches for it, thinks better of it and lets it ring. It goes to the answering machine, and he hears Gordy’s voice.

  “Pete, I got the driver, Caplette’s grandson. I’m on my way back. ETA about forty-­five minutes.”

  “Gordy just called,” he tells Pete when he comes back. “He’s got the driver. Things are looking up.”

  “Maybe,” Pete says. “You never know. You better get on out of here before Gordy gets back.”

  “Forty-­five minutes. But this is good. He’s got the driver.”

  “Don’t go out celebrating. We’ve got a long way to go. Make yourself scarce.”

  GORDY COMES BACK to the office ushering Sean Gross through the door. “Pete, we need to book this young man. Leaving the scene of a fatal accident.”

  “That’s the charge? Leaving the scene?”

  “For now. We’ll let the prosecutor figure out the rest.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “And we’ll need to provide him with an attorney.”

  “I’ll call the county prosecutor. She can get the attorney.”

  “Just put him in the holding cell until she gets here. Sean, you need something to eat?”

  Sean Gross shakes his head.

  PETE MOTIONS GROSS to the empty chair next to his desk, then takes a pink message slip from the desk and hands it to Gordy.

  “Renee Lawson, Channel Eight. And the phone number.”

  “What does she want?” Gordy asks.

  “You. Wouldn’t talk to me. She wants you to call her.”

  “Don’t have anything for her.” Gordy wads up the message and drops it in the wastebasket.

  “She’ll just call you back.”

  “Then she’ll call me back. I still won’t have anything for her. I’m going to lunch.”

  EDNA’S IS STILL pretty full when Gordy gets there. It’s just after one, still part of the lunchtime rush. He grabs an empty stool at the counter. Diane comes up to take his order. “Gordy. What’ll you have, hon?”

  He wants a burger, loaded, lots of good fries. But he restrains himself and orders the diet plate—­hamburger patty, cottage cheese, and a small house salad. He can feel eyes on him, and he leans on the counter, shoulders hunched in an almost protective pose. Guys on either side of him nod, but no one speaks. He gets up and goes to the end of the counter and picks up a ­couple of pieces of the paper. He can still feel the eyes on him, and then he sees Roger Laferiere sitting at a table with a ­couple of other men he recognizes but can’t name. He starts to turn back, then turns again and walks over to Roger, who is stirring a nearly empty cup of coffee.

  “Roger.” Laferiere looks up at him and nods grimly. “Roger. I want you to know that we have made an arrest in your son’s death. We found the car and traced it back to a kid in Warrentown. He’s over at the jail now.”

  Roger keeps staring at his coffee cup.

  “I just wanted you to know. We’re working the case hard. We got the driver.”

  He waits for Roger to answer or at least look up. “Like I said. Just wanted you to know.” Gordy turns to go back to the counter.

  “He was murdered,” Roger says. “He was murdered by Ronny Forbert.”

  Gordy comes back to the table. “No, Roger. He wasn’t. He was hit by a hit-­and-­run driver, and we have him under arrest. It was an accident, Roger. An accident.”

  “The wife and I don’t see it that way,” Roger says. “It wasn’t no accident. Gayle’s talked to a lawyer. He don’t see it that way, either. It wasn’t no accident. Ronny Forbert threw our son out into that road to kill him. And he did.” One of the other men at the table nods in agreement.

  “Roger, I lost my wife a little over a month ago. I know how hard this all is, but it wasn’t what you think. I know you want to put an explanation on this. To blame someone for all the pain they’ve caused you, but you have it wrong. It was an accident.”

  “It doesn’t look like it from here,” the guy who nodded says. “It doesn’t look like an accident. It wasn’t no accident.”

  “Sorry you feel that way, but you’re wrong. We have quite a bit of evidence, and it all points the same way.” Gordy’s tempted to say that Matt was highly intoxicated and under the influence of drugs, but he stops himself. “You’re wro
ng. I’m sorry.”

  “Cops,” a guy in a Citgo cap says. “Cops always stick together. They’ll lie their asses off to protect one of their own. It’s like a game they play—­Cover your ass, and then cover everyone else’s.”

  Gordy can think of nothing to respond to this, except to shake his head. He goes back to his seat at the counter. His salad and diet plate are waiting for him. He picks at the salad, then he eats half of the burger patty and a ­couple forkfuls of the cottage cheese. He pushes the plate away.

  “Lose your appetite?” Diane asks.

  “Pretty much. Take this away and bring me a slice of the apple pie. With ice cream.”

  “You sure, Gordy?”

  He nods and says nothing.

  RONNY’S DRIVING TO Warrentown. He’s going to have to gas up the truck again. He’s just burning up gas this week, spending money when he can least afford to, but he wants a workout, partly to burn off some of his excess energy, mostly to burn up a part of another day. All of the towns have an agreement that lets them use the state police academy facilities, a well-­stocked gym, an indoor range, a pool, and a quarter-­mile outdoor track.

  He is driving west on 417 when he spots it. He hasn’t confronted it yet. Though he has passed by it a ­couple of times already, he looked the other way or just let his eyes glaze over until he was past the impromptu memorial on 417. He drives a few hundred yards past it now, then hits the brakes, pulls the truck off the road, and backs up.

  It’s anchored by a cross of one-­by-­two pine: Rest in Peace, Matt. There’s the usual array of cut flowers wrapped in cellophane, Mylar balloons tied to the cross with fading ribbons, burned-­down candles in glass containers, and several chrysanthemum plants, already frozen in their plastic pots. A worn Red Sox cap is wired to the top of the cross.

  Scattered among the flowers and candles are photos of Matt Laferiere and letters, handwritten and inserted into plastic sleeves. He picks up one of the letters.

  “Matt, you were a good kid, and you could always make me laugh. I will never forget you. Ever. Stacy.” He tries to remember who Stacy might be, but he can’t. There are a ­couple of cans of Natty Light, unopened, and one empty. Did someone place the empty beer can there, or did some other visitor open and drink it? Both seem, somehow, appropriate.

  There are photographs, some in plastic, some already sodden with rain and snow. Matt sitting on the hood of the Cherokee, Matt with Paul and Bobby, Matt as a kid. Maybe junior high. But in the middle of all of them, a framed eight-­by-­ten photo of Matt in a tuxedo, his arm around Nessa. A prom picture. He picks it up. Matt looks completely out of place in a gray tuxedo that looks tight on him. His hair is too long and he has a goofy grin. Nessa is in a high-­cut shiny green dress. Her hair is up, and there is a corsage on her wrist. She looks twenty-­five, but she must have been only seventeen or eighteen when this was taken. Did someone bring it from Matt’s house, or did Nessa leave it? The picture shocks him as if he had never seen Matt and Nessa together. He places it back where it was.

  Who put this here? There is only one obvious answer. Nessa. No one else would have a framed prom picture of the two of them. Only Nessa. He picks the photo up again. She hasn’t had time to see him except that once. But she has found time to come to this site and leave the photo. It is, he guesses, her way of saying good-­bye. He starts to put it back again, but pulls it back. He studies the way Matt’s arm is around Nessa. It’s casual and relaxed, as though that was where it was supposed to be.

  He has taken Nessa from Matt but, he realizes, not entirely. The photo must be four years old, maybe five. But there is an immediacy to it that bothers him, as if it shows that Matt never has, never will let go of her. Or she of him. The look on her face is one he hasn’t seen before. It’s a look of complete and utter happiness. He stands up and, underhanded, spins it back into the woods as if it were a Frisbee.

  HE WALKS INTO the gym and through the weight room to get to the locker room. The weight room is just about empty except for the guy in the squat rack, exhaling hard with every rep, squatting a bar stacked with fifty-­pound plates. He knows who it is. The guy is a monster who spends most of his free time lifting. The guy is six four, six five, absolutely ripped, strutting around the weight room in shorts and a sleeveless T-­shirt that shows off his massive arms.

  Ronny changes into his workout clothes and walks back into the gym. The big guy is done with the squat cage and moves over to the bench. He begins unloading the bar in the cage and begins stacking the plates onto the bar on the bench. Ronny guesses 240 pounds. The guy rips off a quick five reps and then racks the bar.

  “You done with that?” he asks.

  “For a bit. You want it? You want me to strip the bar for you?”

  “I’ll take off a ­couple of plates. It’s OK.”

  “It’s a lot of weight.”

  “I know. I’ll take some off.”

  Ronny’s not the skinny kid he was a few years ago, but he’s not a big-­time lifter, either. He strips off fifty pounds, then gets down on the bench. He gets his hands on the bar, feet flat on the floor, and starts to push the bar up. It’s almost two hundred pounds, more than he’s ever used before. He gets one rep down and up, goes for another, struggles and gets his arms fully extended. One more, he tells himself. One more.

  He gets the bar down, slowly, until it just contacts his chest. He pushes it up a third of the way, struggles, pushes harder and gets it up about halfway. But the bar is starting to jiggle as his arms twitch with fatigue. He tries to go up, but the bar pushes his arms down and the weight comes slowly to his chest. He adjusts his feet on the floor and tries again to push it up. He can get it up a ­couple of inches but no more.

  Defeated, he says, “A little help.”

  But the big guy isn’t there. He lets the bar back down until he’s supporting it with his arms and chest. “A little help,” he repeats. His arms are shaking and he’s taking more of the weight on his chest.

  “I got you,” someone says. “Come on up. I got it.”

  He’s still struggling, but the bar is coming up. He sees someone above him, pulling, and he struggles with the bar, and then the weight slips back and settles onto the rack. He lets go of the bar and slides out from under it. “Thanks,” he says.

  “No problem, man. You should have a spotter with that much weight on.”

  He sits up. It’s not the big guy, but it’s a face he recognizes but can’t place.

  “I thought I did.”

  “You mean that guy?” His savior nods with his head. “He doesn’t care about you. Or me. Or anyone but him.” He leans into Ronny. “His biggest muscle is in his head. Jim Purcell. We were in the academy together.”

  “Oh, right. Right. Well, I’m glad you came along. Ronny Forbert.”

  “Yeah. I remember you. Day off?”

  “Yeah. I’m working in Lydell.”

  “No shit. Big fucking mess over there, right? I mean that guy getting hit by the car.”

  “Yeah. Big fucking mess.”

  “You’re not the cop in that, are you?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “What did they do? Suspend you?”

  “A few days. Didn’t call for backup.”

  “That’s not so bad. Glad you’re OK. You want another crack at that press? Maybe a few less pounds. I’ll spot you.”

  “No. I think I’m done with this.”

  “OK. What is it over in Lydell? A lot of politics?”

  “Lots of politics. My chief is standing by me, though. It’s going to be OK.”

  “That’s good,” Purcell says. “You got a good chief, you’re all right.”

  “Gordy Hawkins. He’s the best.”

  Purcell extends his hands. Thumbs up. “So many of these police chiefs are so afraid of losing their jobs, they just cover their own asses. Mine’s pretty cool. Seifert
over in Glendale. But no one told us how fucking political this job is, did they? Or did I sleep through that?”

  The big guy comes back. “You going to use that?”

  Ronny gets up and waves to the bench rack. “All yours.”

  The big guy grunts and goes over to the racked plates, pulls off two twenty-­five-­pound plates, and slides them onto the bar next to Ronny’s weights.

  “Where are you in your workout?” Purcell asks. “You just starting?”

  “Maybe I’m done. I don’t know.”

  “Got a minute? I have something I want to show you.”

  Purcell turns and goes toward the locker room. Ronny follows. Behind them they can hear the big guy grunting as he starts moving the weights.

  In the locker room, Purcell goes to his locker and unlocks it. “I was thinking about going over to the range. Want to shoot some?”

  “I was just going to work out. I didn’t bring my weapon.”

  “This is your lucky day. I got you covered. Come on. Let’s get dressed and head for the range. I got an extra in my car.”

  Ronny walks over to the range, checks in. Purcell comes back with a holstered Glock and an aluminum case. He puts the case up on the shelf and starts to unlatch it. “This is what I wanted to show you. You’re going to like this.”

  When the case is open, Ronny looks in. “Wow.”

  “ ‘Wow’ is right, my man. Desert Eagle Mark VII, .357 Magnum, automatic, laser sight. Pick it up, man.”

  “Three fifty-­seven auto?”

  “A piece of work, man. The gun Dirty Harry wishes he had. Let’s load it up and you can see for yourself what it can do.”

  It’s the biggest gun Ronny has ever held. He’s seen pictures of it, but never actually put one in his hand. Purcell hands him glasses and hearing protectors. “You’re going to need these.”

  Ronny has a little trouble holding the gun steady, its weight fighting him as he brings it into firing position. He bangs off two shots. “Jeez.”