“What?”
“He gave them out at the Christmas gathering. We were told to stop work a little after lunch. In the back of one truck was a spread of food, and the other had two kegs of beer and bottles of alcohol. A few cases. Laporte stood on the back of a third truck—we were all gathered in the parking lot by his office. Laughing, he pulled out the mugs and told us we needed to use them; something about insurance.
“What made me laugh was that he hadn’t told anyone about the money inside. So, the first guys poured drinks into their mugs and found bills floating in it. Laporte laughed hard because he knew it was going to happen.”
The man chuckled again, this time to himself at the memory.
Horse moved away, but the story confirmed what he thought: everyone there knew each other from work. They were Laporte men. Here, Horse was an outsider. Not only did he not belong, but his own reputation preceded him. People wondered why he was there. A glance; a cup raised in an abutted point. With nothing to talk about while they waited for direction, Horse became more of a topic for conversation. The man who he once had as a student—he couldn’t remember his name—was asked by another about it.
Soon after, one of the state troopers present called their attention. Horse’s former student was not one of them, but, before leaving his classroom, had told Horse about the planned search of the woods. With a call, Danielson had gotten his name on the list of volunteers. When Peter still refused to give any information, Danielson said, the police decided to have a discrete search party check the local woods.
‘This is discrete?’ Horse wondered, listening as the bored laugher of the crowd grew.
“This is a simple search,” the trooper said in a clear bark. “We’re going to form a line and simply walk out into the woods and try and notice anything.”
“Like what?” someone asked.
“Anything.” The trooper paused a moment. “You guys are woodsman. You know what looks normal in a backyard. Look for anything that’s not normal.”
That was the extent of the instructions before the group was directed to the back yard to line up.
“Did the kid say anything?” the man next to Horse asked.
“Nothing that helps,” was the response.
Scattered around were snowshoes. Horse held up his; aluminum, dented, and several technological advances old. ‘Still, they work,’ he thought. A few of the men, hunters, had their own modern snowshoes. Someone from Tubbs Snowshoes in Stowe had driven another fifteen pairs up for the search. Men sat in snow banks, wrestling with straps and making proper adjustments. The rest waited.
Standing after strapping in, Horse looked for a place to throw his near empty cup but only saw the snow bank. Thinking no one was watching, he tossed it there. Headlamp affixed to his forehead, he waited to turn it on. By the coffee had been a box full of headlamps, courtesy of Laporte Contracting. Most of the others wore these headlamps, but not Horse. He had brought his own.
Suited up, people tramped to the back of the house.
The tree line began about fifty feet from the back of the house. A small compost bin, made of knocked-together pallets, sat in the middle of the yard. ‘A garden,’ Horse thought. Under the snow. Troopers spread the men out with waving arms, giving them instructions to simply walk straight and keep their eyes on their path.
Report anything.
Seriousness overtook the thirty or so people.
“Let’s go.”
And they did. The line staggered as it stretched, and finally it began to move forward and into the woods. People tripped and sank and stomped themselves forward. The police knew that the fallen snow had ruined any delicate evidence, but were hoping for this lot to literally turn up a clue that would open the investigation.
Perhaps even Dan’s body.
But Horse was not looking for Dan. He knew from his investigation of the house that Dan had been gone awhile, and if the son had any ideas of where to find him he would have copped to them by now. The troopers knew it, too, he was sure; this exercise was a dog-and-pony-show to satisfy someone demanding action. No, Horse was there to get more information, because he was curious. Walking towards the tree line, Horse thought through what he knew.
Twenty feet into the woods, the shadows of the trees mixed with the light of the halogen made every bump a body. Stumbling, he nearly ran into some blue maple sap tubing. For a moment Horse turned off his headlamp and saw that he’d strayed a bit from the others. Through the narrow gaps in the trees, he could see flashes of other headlamps.
“Hey, light!” a voice called from his right.
Turning it back on, Horse heard a light laugh as the beam shined on a pair of sienna clad shins moving towards him.
“I guess I should have brought my own light,” the voice said, shuffling towards him.
Instinctively, Horse looked at where the voice was coming from and blinded the man. The man raised a big orange mitten to cover his eyes. Horse looked down at the ground between them to lead him over. The man wore a modern pair of well-worn snowshoes; someone who must go out regularly, Horse thought. Large—at least six feet tall but quite wide—his build was that of someone who not only had a physical job, but was beefy to begin with. Coming forward, he didn’t so much as walk on the snow but bulldozed it down. From the brief glimpse of the light in his face, Horse figured he was in his forties, he had a round face, very ruddy cheeks, and large teeth.
‘I’ll bet he’s a talker.’ he thought, impatiently
“Laporte was passing them out with the coffee,” Horse said.
“I know. I gave mine up and followed you. I thought something might be gained by stumbling about in the dark, looking at shadows, and relying on feelings.”
“Was it?”
“I took out some sap lines back there.”
“I don’t think Dan’s going to be using them this season.”
“Is that what your gut tell you?”
“My brain.”
“Pity.” The man was beside him, now. Outside of his beam of light, Horse could make out the man’s head moving, looking around in an expansive way. “With the large snowfall, I predict warm days soon. With the snow keeping things cool as it melts, it’ll be perfect tapping weather.”
“And for the bloating of the body to start,” Horse replied.
The man said nothing.
“I didn’t notice a sugar shack,” Horse said, trying to change back to a more appropriate subject.
“No, he sells his sap to Laporte for sugaring,” the man replied. “That’s me.”
The same mitten that had earlier covered his eyes from the light came out just as Horse looked at him again, flashing the beam of light in Laporte’s face. The man squinted, but kept his right hand extended, waiting for a shake in return.
“Sorry,” Horse said. He looked down at the hand and shook it. Orange, Horse noted that Laporte must be a hunter. Then he looked away, pointing the beam into the woods ahead.
“That’s the problem with headlamps,” Laporte laughed. “But I’m used to it.”
“Is there a lot of spelunking in your line of work?”
“Crawlspaces. Eves. Wiring and plumbing. Yes.”
“You’ve got a lot of guys to do that.”
“Oh, you gotta keep your hand in it. I didn’t go into contracting to sit in a truck. I like getting my hands dirty.”
“I would have thought you’d at least have gotten your own flashlight. They are yours, after all.”
“Guys come first,” Laporte replied in a tone that suggested he had used this line several times a day, for decades.
“Peter told me he sugared with his dad,” Horse said.
“Perhaps he taps a few trees.”
How does Dan sugar it, Horse wondered. He thought back to his rummage through the house and barn, but couldn’t remember any type of pan that would process a decent amount of sap into syrup.
Without a word, Horse began slowly walking away from Dan’s house. The sound of Laport
e’s shuffling snowshoes followed. They walked twenty yards or so before Laporte broke the silence.
“Did I hear before that you’re Peter’s teacher?”
“No,” Horse replied, almost under his breath. “He’s in the other class.”
“Pity.” Laporte didn’t offer that Peter needed someone to “kick him in the ass” though. Horse heard that a lot. Instead, the contractor said, “Some of my guys had kids with you. Some had kids with the other guy.”
There was no hint about which kids were better off.
They walked about a hundred yards. Both Horse and Laporte were breathing hard, but neither wanted the other to know.
They both stopped.
“In a week, this’ll all be gone,” Laporte said, indicating the snow with a nod of his head.
“Hopefully, we’ll get an answer before then.
”
“How far are we supposed to go?” Laporte asked.
‘You know,’ Horse thought.
Catching his breath, he took more of an inventory of the contractor. ‘Two types of people wouldn’t have taken their own flashlight into the woods: Incompetent or controlling.’ From his brief interaction, Laporte was not ingratiating or self-deprecating, indicating a certain level of confidence. The operation was well planned. Did this, though, demonstrate an easy competence or a strong need to control the situation. Horse thought the latter. In his mind, Laporte knew how far they were supposed to go—he was a man who knew all of the details before he starts anything. To him, everything is a job, a contract. The generators and lights and coffee and men are what he brings to the table, and in exchange the state police are open with him; not dishonest or even “old boy”, but friendly as people are in the rural reaches of northern Vermont. As an upstanding member of the community—sponsor of a Little League team, church member, and local patron—his being on the inside makes things run smoother.
And he liked being in the loop.
Even more, he liked being in charge.
Horse was sure all of this was at Laporte’s insistence; the state police were just going along.
‘How long do I have to dance around out in this snow in the dark,’ Laporte thought to himself. He was there in the woods, freezing, to keep an eye on Horse. ‘Why is he here?’ Laporte wondered, seeing him sip coffee while talking to Travis. Pocketing a flashlight, Laporte had set himself off to discretely follow him into the woods and look for signs that he knew something about Dan.
“I don’t know how far we’re supposed to go,” Horse said. Then, he bluffed him. “Let’s keep going.”
He felt Laporte hesitate.
‘Someone likes to call the shots,’ Horse thought. But knows to be polite with potential clients, which is anyone not on the payroll.
“I don’t see other lights,” Laporte said, finally.
“We’ve just spread out.” Horse looked back. “We aren’t lost. You can see the halogen through the trees.”
“I just don’t know if a hundred more yards is going to help.”
“Still, this is a man’s life.”
“We’re beyond the sap lines.”
Horse let the silence work.
Three years ago, he did a series of social science experiments on his students involving silence. They had had problems with “sustained silent reading”, a cornerstone of his literacy program and a basic skill if the kids were going to grow up to be lifelong readers. Both “sustained” and “silent” were an issue, and poor reading followed. First, Horse had challenged his students to do a pleasurable activity for an hour—table football with one of those triangle footballs made of folded notebook paper, played with a partner of their choice. After fifteen minutes three fights broke out. Then, he tried silence, but they kept talking about being silent, and even when sound stopped the pantomiming was impossible to break. He ended it after twenty minutes when he found two girls, sitting twelve inches apart, texting each other.
People have to talk, was his conclusion. Silence was very powerful, indeed.
“Let’s go back,” Laporte finally said.
“Did he work for you?” Horse asked.
“Dan? As an independent contractor.” After a few steps, Laporte asked, “I thought you knew him?”
“Me? No.”
“And Peter’s not your student?”
“No.”
“Why are you here?”
“Concerned member of the community,” Horse lied.
“Oh.”
The rest of the walk was in silence.
At the top of the drive, Horse unstrapped his snowshoes and banged them on the frozen gravel to get the ice off the crampons. He walked over to the truck that still had the dregs of coffee on the tail, and made his way to the cab. Headlamp still on, the beam searched the darkness; nothing but some accordion files of purchase orders that sat on the passenger seat. A phone sat in the charger.
Over half the men were back. They mumbled and mingled, all wondering when they could politely excuse themselves and get back to their lives—families, alcohol, television—before getting up again at five to be on the job site at seven. A few yawned.
There was no news, nor much enthusiasm for this task. They knew Dan, but this was clearly a pointless exercise.
The troopers werehere because Laporte was offering his men. But why does Laporte care?
Making his way down the drive towards his car, he shined his headlamp into each cab, looking… Nothing. Papers. Wrappers. Coffee cups. Tools. Discarded clothing.
All perfectly innocent, or incriminating.
Nothing he might discern with a headlamp shining through a window while passing.
I’ll need to break in.
CHAPTER 6
Lights out.
Around the shade at the far side of Horse’s classroom, light crept in, making it a thinly framed rectangle. At the board was a bright square of light, as an old overhead projector shot a poem onto a clean screen.
Part of the last stanza of Rudyard Kipling’s “If” was on Horse’s hip.
“...Throughout this poem Kipling is giving advice to his son. All of it perfectly sound and the type of tripe found in greetings cards and from parents when they aren’t yelling at us or fearing for our future. He could be any parent. But we come to these two lines...
“The unforgiving minute
“Think about that phrase—Unforgiving.
“Kipling is talking about the idea that life is short and each minute is precious. You know, like if you were going to die tomorrow what would you do? Ho, hum. Like something your parents might say.”
Horse looks into the darkness. Before he continues, he wants this idea of sink in.
“If you were going to die tomorrow, what would you do?” he repeats.
Someone raises their hand in the darkness.
“It was rhetorical,” Horse tells the dark figure. “Kipling is not sentimental about this idea. That moment is unforgivable. Because you will never get it back. Ever. Never. Unlike the parent who tells you that anyone can grow up to be president, Kipling is saying now is the time or you are doomed. Doomed!
“With sixty seconds of distance run.”
Again, he pauses.
“What does that mean? Your life is going to be about seventy-two years of sixty second increments. That’s a lot. So Kipling—in this single line—makes two recommendations.
“First, pace yourself. This is a marathon, not a sprint. Distance. Well, that’s what we normally think. Hey, I have tomorrow. Or next year. But remember, each minute is unrelenting! You need to make it count.
“Second, the run. While not a sprint, it is not a walk, either. Or a sit. Or a lay on the couch while you have potato chip crumbs piling up under your chin. No. Run. Now. Because that unrelenting minute will pound you down each and every minute until you die.
“Yes, I know you are only in seventh grade, but if you don’t start making choices and living life now, you aren’t going to do it when you’re twenty-six.”
&n
bsp; ‘An overhead,’ his colleague Jones thought every time he passed the room and saw Horse standing in the dark edges, teaching, flapping his arms around and talking about whatever. Old technology.
Ancient.
“Ancient teacher,” he muttered as he walked back to his own classroom.
Jones himself had an interactive whiteboard, a synthesis of chalkboard and computer that allowed him to interact with the board and everything the electronic portal could bring to the student. A school board member had been keen on getting more technology into the school and Jones did not hesitate to craft a list of what he thought would help the school.
Wells had been less enthusiastic. Besides recommending a computer lab for each grade cluster, the principal had suggested a more measured approach. Every year, he argued, a few of the computers in the lab could be replaced with newer models, the older ones making their way to the classrooms. For other new technology he called on what he called “pioneer teachers” to use technology for a year before the board considered adopting it for widespread use.
Jones had thought it a bit meek.
“Not sexy enough for some,” Wells had said, sharing a beer with Horse after a particularly odd school board meeting—a principal in the positive of turning away school board money.
Horse thought it all a regrettable trend.
“A distraction,” he said when asked, which wasn’t often.
In the end, Wells bought Jones off by declaring Jones a pioneer teacher for the middle school grades. As rooms acquired LCD projectors and interactive whiteboards, Horse collected the old technologyThis made him happy—as happy as Horse seemed to get—because he was a hoarder.
“Thrifty,” he had said. “Good old New England thrift.”
. In the back of the room were a cluster of old desktop computers, a milk crate of GPS devices, another of past generation digital cameras and a shoebox full of mobile phones that were still able to access the school’s wifi. He had five overhead projectors, and Jones had once noticed an 8mm film projector and two filmstrip projectors in a cabinet.
“What are you going to do with five overhead projectors?” Jones had asked. But Horse had used them, with students tracing maps of Lake Champlain and the Green Mountains and in various physics experiments involving light and mirrors. As technology migrated to his room, so did the tapes, films, supplies, and support materials. Within a year of Jones becoming a pioneer, Horse had acquired a small media center. His students were pulling apart old video players and repurposing them. They watched old science tapes narrated by Jim Crum. In the main foyer was a kiosk built of old laptops; an electronic trophy case showing off to visitors the best of Grace Haven.
Absentee List_An Old Horse Mystery Page 6