Tim didn’t object. If this had been his job, the brute force required would’ve made him look bad. But it’d be the psychological weight of the task he really would’ve struggled with.
“Lurcquer?” Mitchell grunted, the only sign he’d shown of exertion. “You mind?”
Tim looked around. What was he supposed to be doing?
He always felt like this, two steps behind, while the others were like some rarefied elite. The damned starting lineup on the varsity hockey team. He’d played, of course, but he hadn’t started. Even Gil—whom they all called the rookie, because he’d only recently joined the force after getting back from the service—had it over Tim. Back in high school, Gil had spent more time in the box than on the ice, the enforcer who broke opponents’ teeth and bones.
Brendan hadn’t played, but off the ice he wasn’t as bad as the others. Brendan had been a good-natured sort, full of fun ideas for what to do when their shifts were over. He’d smashed his share of bottles. It’d been Brendan who started the annual polar bear dunk for the cops. And once in a while he’d ask Tim to ride along with him and Club, and they’d spend most of the shift laughing and complaining about the job.
There were also the times when Brendan went solo or stayed behind in the barracks. It’d always baffled Tim how much the Chief seemed to love Brendan, given what a slacker the guy could be. He was a good cop, though; he really cared about people. Tim didn’t want to speak ill of the dead. Maybe Brendan wasn’t slacking after all, just didn’t want to be quite as close to things, this deep in the muck.
Tim could relate to that.
“Look at the hole,” Mitchell grunted again. He supported his burden with one hand, pointing with the other.
Tim turned around on the patch of recently dug-up earth, his boots packing down new snow. Now he saw. Snow had already partially filled in the trench.
He used both hands to fiddle with the mechanism on the shovel, open it to its full length. Then he started to scoop out the fresh accumulation. As he dug, he registered how shallow the grave was.
But hell, it was amazing they had a burial place at all. The Chief had had equipment from Paulson’s available to him. He and Lenny Paulson went way back, which was lucky. Only heavy machinery could break up the ground this time of year.
Trench empty, Tim turned to face Mitchell.
The other cop gave a massive bellow of preparation and tossed the body in.
“Well,” Mitchell said, breath emerging in even white gusts. “There goes number two.”
Both looked down at the rift in the ground, then around the whitened woods. They did it as one, gazes falling, heads turning to check.
And Tim experienced a brief, fleeting link of connection, the reason he had stayed on the job for so long. He could do it. He could be just like them.
They were two men sizing up a problem, assessing their location and the likelihood of its being discovered. Two men deciding to work with what they had.
Tim threw Mitchell a second folded shovel, and Mitchell flicked it to its full length as if it were a match.
They worked to conceal what they’d done here today.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The police station was housed in a squat building high up on Roister Road. Its best feature was a view of Lake Nancy, now a silver mirror. Its worst was a sheath of vinyl siding, which I used to ask Vern if he would let me take down.
My car crunched over the combination of salt, pebbles, and grit that served as a parking lot. I avoided the gas pump, pulling into a space a fair distance off from the row of gray cop cars. Their shadowy forms made my red car look like the afterimage of some alien sun.
The room I entered was overheated and spare. Brendan had always complained about sweating in his uniform in winter. A mean fluorescent glow made the space even starker than it might have been: two chairs pushed against a wall with a new sheen of paint on it, and a sliding glass window that was always kept streak-free. I’d never seen a cop occupying this space, though, summoning visitors with a look or a word.
It shamed me to think of it now, but I’d never paid that much attention to what Brendan did at work. The life of the police force, efficient and well equipped for such a remote region, had always proceeded in a rather vague blur. Sometimes Brendan was what he called up to things: domestic problems that occasionally escalated, and recently there’d been a spate of thefts. But usually he led the life of any cop who worked on the perimeter of great wilderness. He made sure black powder season stayed that way, kept an eye on bored kids whose families all owned guns, assisted with Search and Rescue.
I hadn’t known what black powder was until Brendan explained it to me. And even then, I could never understand why some hunters preferred to act like frontiersmen, pouring gunpowder into their rifles and tamping it down, when Chance at the Bait and Ammo had forty different weapons that would kill a deer with a lot less fuss.
Then again, I couldn’t imagine killing anything at all.
A metal door led into another room, gleaming and sleek. This was where the real work was done. Flat-screen monitors dominated five desks, the phones had LCD displays, and the gray cubicle walls were thickly padded.
Brendan had complained when the office had gone paperless, which was more the norm for big-city departments. The programs were hard to learn and cumbersome to use, and incident reports that used to take him five minutes to fill out now required a half hour of arduous clacking.
Vern Weathers sat on top of one desk, his back to me, fleshy body displacing a case or two of CDs, instead of the usual straying sheets of forms. A half-moon of men in gray uniforms perched on chairs, stares presumably fixed on the Chief’s face.
“No partner patrols for the next few weeks,” the Chief was saying. “You boys can divide up. I don’t want any downstate assholes in those woods with their cross-country skis.”
Someone chuckled. “Like we groom those trails.”
Laughter mingled with his, the Chief’s included.
Then Tim Lurcquer looked up and saw me standing in the doorway.
I had never really liked Tim, with his snub features and flat, humorless smile. He didn’t quite seem to fit with the other guys, always attempting to squash the raucousness that ensued when all the men got together, Brendan’s jovial suggestions.
Dave Weathers stood up. “Chief.”
The Chief turned around on the desk. “Nora, honey.” He glanced at Club and Tim. “Into your grays now, boys,” he said. “Don’t report in civvies again.”
He began to walk, indicating that I should follow. “Got that taillight fixed?”
“Dugger Mackenzie took care of it for me,” I replied, trying to match the Chief’s stride.
There was a pause, and I went on, selecting one of the many questions competing for reply. “Do you know him?” The Chief glanced back without answering, and I felt compelled to continue. “Do you know how old Dugger is?”
Vern touched some buttons on the keyless lock on his door and led the way into his office. He placed himself behind his desk and gestured for me to take a seat.
“Dugger? Thirty and change, I guess.” He eyed me. “A couple-three years older than Brendan.”
I couldn’t believe it. Dugger was our age? The crazy thought occurred to me that the Chief might be lying.
He glanced at his computer screen, and the movement spoke more loudly than words.
I went on hurriedly. “Do you know anything about Brendan and skating?”
The Chief leaned forward, folding his thick hands on his desk. “I know that he hated it. You know that. How many times did the boys try and get him to take a spot on the team?”
“Right,” I said. “I know. But Dugger told me he used to skate as a kid.”
The Chief chuckled then. “Well, you can’t trust much of what Dugger says, honey. He isn’t right in the head. Been that way since he was little.”
“Right,” I said again. I had known that right away. Only in this case at least, what
Dugger said turned out to be true.
The Chief shifted on his seat. “Anyhow, what does it matter either way? Kids grow up, their likes and dislikes change.”
That sounded so reasonable, I knew I would seem crazy if I pursued it. But this did matter. If only because Brendan hadn’t given me such a sound reason himself.
The Chief must’ve seen something in my eyes. “Look, Nora, can I offer you a piece of advice here?”
I nodded uncertainly.
“Time to time, I’ve had to make a call. You know the kind I mean? Where you deliver news to someone, knowing it’s the last thing they’re ever in their lives gonna want to hear.”
I nodded again, this time with more understanding.
“It’s the worst part of the job. I know Brendan thought so. Person like Brendan, sorrow just didn’t fit.” For a moment, the Chief glanced toward his window. Then he turned back to me, and his face looked smoother, more composed. “But we learn from those times. Boy, do we learn. And one thing I know is you’re going through something like a war right now, and the battle’s not gonna be lost or won for some time.”
It was my turn to look away, to hide the tears running quietly down my cheeks.
“This isn’t a time to be poking around, asking questions, coming face-to-face with—”
“With what, Chief?” I broke in. “With answers? With the truth?”
“Naw,” he said fiercely. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. With the lack of answers. With how few answers there ever are. Why did someone take that last drink before he crashed his car? What made him stay the extra hour in the woods and wind up freezing to death?”
The Chief stood up behind his desk. “Honey,” he said. “It’s the lack of answers that make a person die all over again. Why would you do that to yourself?”
I shook my head. For the first time since the funeral, I couldn’t say.
“This is a time to hunker down,” the Chief said. “Mourn. Join with your family. I met your family the other day. They’re good folks.”
I wiped my face, and the Chief dug into his breast pocket for a handkerchief.
“Will you think about what I’ve said?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “No, you keep that,” he added, as I halfheartedly held out the scrap of sodden cloth.
The Chief came around and opened his door.
When I walked out, Dave Weathers angled his body away. Vern’s brother was built like him, a bit softer and looser, but just as large.
Dave’s arm accidentally brushed against his desk, sending a few items sliding to the floor. He was stooping, sweeping them together, as I reached the door.
I exited against a wall of icy wind, zipping up my coat, then saw Club come out behind me. His face was chapped and raw, angry-looking, as if he’d spent time outside without wearing his mask. He flexed gloveless hands as I greeted him.
“I’ll be salting later,” Club remarked. “We’re in for a big one.”
I glanced up at the snow-blank sky. “Can I ask you something, Club?”
He didn’t answer right away, fingering his holster, a steady—if apparently mindless—gesture. “Cold out here,” he said. “Want to sit down in my truck?”
I looked at him. “Sure.”
We crossed the buried lot. After we’d closed the doors, Club fired the ignition and turned on the heat. “What’s up?”
I swallowed. “Do you have any idea why Brendan might’ve been taking painkillers?”
“Painkillers?” Club echoed. “Nope. I sure don’t.”
“Or sleeping pills maybe.”
Club shook his head.
I stripped off my gloves and held my hands out to the blowing air. “You guys were working late a lot the last few weeks.”
“Sure,” Club replied. “Happens. You know that.”
A sneeze overtook me, and I looked down. The seat I was occupying was thickly coated with black fur. I smiled, sneezing ferociously again.
“God bless,” Club said absently. He was staring out the window. “The only thing I can tell you about Brendan’s last days is he was doing a lot of talking. More than usual even.”
“Talking?” I said. “About what?”
Club shrugged. “You know. How it’s hard to do what we do. Protect the good when there’s scum all around. Pardon,” he added.
I sniffed in deep. “Yeah. That sounds like something Brendan used to talk about.” Brendan’s face—his whole stance—used to change when he did, become stiffer, more intense. I would attempt to humor him out of it, make jokes about small-town intrigue, who would mow the town square this summer, but Brendan lost his customary wit during those times.
“Mowing is big business up here, Chestnut,” he told me once. “Goes along with snow-plowing.” He’d spread his hands against a pane of glass, whitened at the time with frost and flakes. “Enough said.” But clearly it hadn’t been enough. “Bills can run to hundreds of thousands of dollars in these parts. When that kind of money is in play, the gloves come off. Anything can go.”
I’d thought about it later, the various interpretations of that phrase. Had Brendan meant “anything goes”? Or “any corner can be cut”?
I gave another sneeze.
“You know?” Club was turning down the heat. “Maybe it would be a good idea to go see your family. Get a little time away.”
“Yes,” I said, something in his words bothering me. “Maybe.”
It wasn’t until I’d returned to my own car that the question took shape in my mind. Did Club come to the same conclusion about a needed family visit on his own? Or had Vern asked him to pass the advice on?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Driving home, it occurred to me that Vern’s suggestion could be taken another way. Well-intentioned advice aside, I had no interest in leaving Wedeskyull right now, let alone visiting my parents. But didn’t Eileen fit the definition of family? Because my mother-in-law might know whether Brendan had some experience on the ice that turned him off skating for life.
I would just heat up something for lunch first. Facing my mother-in-law would require strength. I was hungry again, and plus, I had a call to make.
The nurse practitioner at the doctor’s I went to clearly knew about Brendan. Her voice was thick with sympathy. “Of course, dear, I’ll phone that right in,” she said, when I asked for something a little stronger than Claritin. I hadn’t stopped sneezing since leaving Club’s truck. “We don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“Thank you,” I said, and sniffed.
“Gosh, you do sound miserable,” the nurse went on. “I’ll make sure this is ready right away.”
“Thanks,” I said again, then hung up.
As I was cranking up the furnace the phone rang, and I answered it, anticipating some glitch with my insurance or prescription information.
“Nora?”
A male voice, neither the nurse nor the windless vacuum that had come with the other calls I’d received lately, the hang-ups on my cell.
“It’s Ned Kramer.”
I was reaching for my memory of how to conduct a business call when Ned went on. “I wanted to call and express my condolences.”
I still couldn’t come up with words, but Ned continued as if there wasn’t anything unusual in my silence. “I have a—a casserole for you. Maybe I can bring it by.”
“You cooked a casserole?” I asked.
“I did,” Ned replied easily. “Crumbling plaster wall above the stove and everything. I’ve learned to compensate.”
“So this is about your house,” I said.
Ned didn’t seem offended by my tone. “Well … if you’re ready to get back to work. Believe me, this place is a lifelong dream of mine, but there are days when I’m tempted to move back to the cabin I stayed in when I first came up here.”
“That bad?” I responded.
“Only if you want to call rotted-out floorboards, four clogged fireplace flues, and mildew strong enough for che
mical warfare bad.”
“Music to my ears,” I retorted, and Ned laughed.
“So you are ready to start on the job?”
I snuffed out the brief flame of kinship kindled by our exchange, walking over to the stove and emptying a can of soup into a pot. “Can you give me a few days?”
“I can give you whatever you need,” Ned replied. There was a depth of understanding to his words.
“This not-working thing isn’t good for me financially. Or otherwise,” I added.
“Gotcha.” He sounded as if he really did. Get it, that is.
An easy rapport existed between us that didn’t quite compute. I had met Ned only once or twice, when he interviewed me for that article, an occasional quick hello in the places newcomers tended to congregate, like Rockets. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I apologize.”
“No, please don’t. Apologize. Please do, I mean. Say all that. Even though it wasn’t really very much.”
Something about his awkward shamble of words prompted me to go on.
“I miss working,” I said. “And that’s the worst part of all. Because it’s the last thing I should miss.”
“You don’t get a choice in what you miss, though, do you?” Ned replied, low. “That choice was taken away from you.”
The pot I’d lit a flame under started to sizzle. I burned my fingers grabbing the handle.
“Nora?” Ned said. “Are you there?”
“Yes!” I cried, waving my hand in the air. “No! I can’t come! I can’t do your house.”
Then I hung up. Even my mother-in-law would be better than Ned Kramer right now.
I drove through town, heaped white from the plows, then wound down Patchy Hollow Road for a mile or two before coming to the dead end where my mother-in-law’s house stood. It was a foursquare that had been in the Hamilton family for generations, along with its companion across the road. One belonged to Bill, the other to his sister, so this had been Brendan’s childhood home. But Brendan hadn’t been over here much since his father had died.
I braked behind my mother-in-law’s ancient Ford, kept alive by Al Meter. Eileen’s clothes were two or three decades out of date, and her car was, too. Struggling to mount a smile of greeting, I got out amidst stalks of grass tall enough that their tips pierced the snow, and a faraway gleam of frozen lake.
Cover of Snow Page 6