Cover of Snow (15 page)

Tears flooded my eyes, too. I had already been crying out of fear and shock, but these sobs came for a whole other reason.

Dugger finally seemed unsettled, scrabbling around in his pockets. Of course he hadn't been frightened before; he knew what he'd recorded. My fear had probably seemed inexplicable to him. With a branding stab of guilt, I recalled the momentary hatred I'd felt toward Dugger for subjecting me to something I was all wrong about.

“Missus?” Dugger said.

He was cupping a silver rectangle, aiming its round black eye at me.

My ears were so clogged I could hardly make out the sound of Dugger's voice; it was as if he were speaking to me through water or after a suddenly steep airline descent. I had no idea why I was being photographed.

He must've recognized my confusion. “Nobody takes pictures then.”

The moment of lucidity sliced through the muddiness in my head. “What?” I cried, then lowered my tone, afraid of losing him. “I mean, when? When don't they take pictures?”

“The worst,” he said softly. “The cursed, the ones about to burst …”

It was a rhyme, but not only a rhyme, more of a description.

I peered at him, frowning. There was meaning here, some import to the photos Dugger chose to snap, the things he saw fit to record.

Suddenly, he pitched forward, stooping over Brendan's desk. His hand began racing across buttons on the keyboard, so fast that I couldn't believe he would accomplish anything. But a series of photographs began to appear on the screen, conjured up by his flying fingers.

A car wreck, the vehicle accordion-folded, its occupant being lifted into an ambulance on the corner of Water Street.

The kitchen of a dilapidated house on the outskirts of town, its refrigerator open, empty.

A man standing in a lot near the consolidated school, where a new foundation was being poured, holding a cold pack to his head with an obvious grimace of pain.

Someone staring at a shattered figurine on the floor, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Photographs kept scrolling by, Dugger's fingers slipping, more careless now, closing shots before I really got a look at them. Gray faces, and tired, sloped bodies, caught in places throughout Wedeskyull and poses that seemed to have no connection.

And then I finally saw the link. All of these people were hurting in some way.

I raised my face to Dugger. His eyes had gone wide and wild; there was a frenzied look in the whites of them.

Weekend entered the room at a run, skidding to a halt before his body could bang into either of ours. His hind quarters brushed against a shelf and two books fell over. As I stooped to stand them up, I saw a tiny volume lying between.

The twin to Bill's journal. Brendan's photo album.

I took it out and checked to make sure. The pages wafted by, a rainbow of years. I closed my eyes momentarily. The album had never been taken at all. It had stayed right here in this house, paged through by my husband, perhaps on the last night he was alive.

There came a low, throaty rumble, and I looked to see Dugger stroking Weekend's head blindly. He was staring straight ahead, but his eyes were losing that crazed expression. After a moment, I approached them both, bending to bury my face in the dog's fur. Dugger was calming down, and Weekend also seemed back to normal now. It was I who had changed. I didn't sneeze as I breathed in warmth from the dog. I wasn't allergic anymore. It was the only good thing in this whole fathomless mess, the one thing that could distract me from the glimpses of my husband in years gone by, and everything else that I'd just heard and seen.

Dugger left in the time it took me to lift my head from Weekend. I hadn't even noticed. How many times had Dugger slipped away unheard, unseen? He seemed to have a gift for such sleight of form.

I went downstairs, spent, alone except for Weekend, but still hungry. The hamburger meat had been consumed, its Styrofoam tray licked clean. I freshened the dog's water bowl, then fixed myself a sandwich, which I ate listlessly, one bite after another. The raging in my stomach began to quiet, although my spirit remained unstill.

I had to get out of here. For a few days at least. I couldn't stay in this house, concealed by snow, the echo of that baby's first cries in my ears. A shadowy sense of loss that I couldn't identify plagued me.

There was only one place I could think of to go.

I looked down at Weekend, sniffing for scraps on the floor as I finished off my hasty meal. “Okay, Week,” I said. “Let's see if your master's gotten home.” The dog lifted his head. “Just have to throw a few things together first,” I went on. Mentally planning, I added a quick phone call to my list of to-do's.

Ned wouldn't be at home, of course, but the number for his cell might be in the business folder that I'd begun putting together on my computer. I could hardly stand to approach the machine again, sidling over to it as if there might be real monsters contained within, rapists, mad men, unknown others. I forced my eyes to zero in only on my own sparse list of files, ignoring anything imported from Dugger.

Weekend stood patiently by me, tongue lolling, sides rising and falling as I phoned.

“This is Ned.”

I felt an almost irresistible urge to tell him everything, break down in the comfort of his response. We were going back and forth, the two of us, consoling each other. But I just said, “It's Nora. Did your cabin turn out to be free?”

“Nora?” he said. “No. It's occupied till Saturday.” He hesitated. “A group of ice fishermen actually. I'll be at the inn in town tonight.” Another pause. “Why?”

I hesitated only a second. “I'm going away for a few days. Out of town. You'd be welcome to stay here.”

There was silence again over the line. “Any particular reason you're leaving town?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I just feel the need for a little time away.”

“Straight?” Ned said, and it took me a moment to get what he meant, recall the conversation we'd had in his house, but then I responded, “Straight,” and he said, “Well, then, thanks. I'd appreciate that.”

Weekend didn't leave my side as I finished my preparations. In addition to my pack, weighed down with the usual, plus enough clothes for a getaway, I took one other thing from home. Brendan's box. Something about Dugger's recordings told me it was time to go through the relics of my husband's past as well.

The task might be a little easier away from the home we'd shared.

With Weekend straining to get out into the cold night air, I lingered for a moment on my porch. I had left two lights burning for Ned, and the rooms were neat and tidy. They'd always stayed on the spare side, and had only become more so in Brendan's absence. I had hoped that a tangle of kids would introduce some disorder and chaos one day. Still, they provided a warmth and familiarity I knew I would miss. For a beat of time, I regretted my momentary impulse. This was my home now, and only in the leaving of it did I realize how bereft I would be to live anywhere else.

Weekend's claws dug into the porch floor as we emerged from the house. Someone had come by and shoveled off today's accumulation. Another small town favor. I wondered if whoever it was had seen Dugger inside, witnessed any of the tumult tonight, and I realized that I didn't really mind if they had. Somewhere along the line, I'd come to rely on the way people in a small town worried, nosed, and cared.

Maybe the warning I'd received at Ned's house was a small town favor too, albeit one that had frightened the hell out of an innocent dog. But in any case, it wasn't one I could heed any longer. The ability to look away had been stolen from me. Or maybe a need to examine had been bequeathed.

I descended the porch steps, and crunched with the dog over a wide expanse of snow.

Club lived on the far side of Wedeskyull, hardly in town at all, but for a scatter of houses around his. They were all of a piece, a hundred or so years old, too nondescript despite their age to inspire any urge to restore. Boxy frames, stumpy porches, a plain smattering of rooms. Lights blazed throughout Club's house and his Jimmy sat in the drive. I wondered why he hadn't come by for his dog.

Weekend started barking excitedly as soon as I parked. The drift at the side of the street stood well over my head. I leaned across to open the passenger door, and Weekend bounded up and over the hill of snow, paws sending down a spray of white. He stood at the top, waiting for me as I made my slower way around.

Snow frozen hard as concrete had begun to clot in the ruts of Club's driveway. Usually he scattered salt thickly enough that winter-skinny deer braved the outskirts of town to lick it. Weekend went slowly, seeming to hold himself back from the porch light that beckoned, while I reached down to his collar for support, skating and skidding my way up the drive.

I didn't recognize the lady who pulled open the door. She was buxom, with thick arms folded over pendulous breasts. Club had always been single, although according to Brendan, he took home a succession of hookups. Weekend greeted the woman with neither a growl nor a brush against her stout body.

“Club's not home,” she said.

“Oh,” I replied, patting Weekend's back. “I brought—I mean, I'm on my way out of town—I'm a friend of his,” I finally concluded my string of inane fragments.

“I know who you are,” the woman replied flatly. She reached out. “I'll take the dog.”

I looked at her, not letting go of Weekend. “You know who—” Then I broke off, not sure why this plain, middle-aged woman inspired such idiocy on my part.

“Nora Hamilton, right?” she supplied. “The widow.”

I waited for the inevitable
I'm sorry for your loss
, but it didn't come. “I don't think I know—”

She broke in brusquely. “I'm Ada Mitchell. Club's mother. I live upstairs.”

These types of blunt bungalows made decent two-family residences, and I knew the historic society—comprised almost entirely of newcomers—often went head to head with the owners over so doctoring their homes for extended families or extra rental income.

Since this lady didn't seem the type for pleasantries, I didn't bother extending my hand. “Is Club still at work?”

“Still, always,” Mrs. Mitchell replied, lifting the twin stumps of her shoulders. “That boy never stops working. Just like his daddy.”

“Club's father was a policeman?” I couldn't remember if I'd ever known that.

“Good job for someone who likes to shoot,” she replied, no spark or life in her eyes as she spoke. “In his case, it got him killed. They called it accidental, but when my husband discharged his weapon, it was never any accident.” She peered out into the blackness. “Hope my boy fares better.” But she didn't sound optimistic.

I was getting cold standing on the porch. I stamped my feet in their boots, and Weekend pressed closer to me, his big body lending warmth. Club's mother didn't appear to feel the temperature, even in her thin housedress.

“Mrs. Mitchell?” I said. “Would it be all right if I came in for a few minutes?” I was trying to drum up some explanation as to why, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

“No, I don't think you want to do that,” Club's mother replied, easing her plentiful shadow over so it eclipsed the front door. She reached out a hand and bundled up Weekend's leash in a leathery knot so that she could pull the dog in without slack. He went to her obligingly, but upturned his face, chocolate gaze meeting mine one last time.

“I'm sorry?” I said, stalling. All of a sudden, it seemed a bad idea to have come here, to be dropping off the dog, or leaving town at all.

Weekend rushed at me, and I bent down, receiving a wet faceful of fur. Mrs. Mitchell stepped outside into the frigid night, drawing the dog back with neither gentleness nor aggression, just a simple, stolid tug. As she moved to do so, I caught a glimpse inside.

What I saw made no sense. Club was on duty now, using his department-issued car, and department-issued weapon. So why would his gun cabinet, displayed in its prominent place by the door and containing his private collection of arms, have been left ajar?

A few days ago, the Chief had given Club an assignment.

“I'd like you to pay a visit to Jean Hamilton's house this morning,” he'd said. “The one in town. Nobody's home.”

Club had looked levelly at the Chief.

“Jean made a trip upstairs the day of the funeral,” the Chief went on. “Saw her go myself. Might be she was just getting a little peace and quiet. Might be she wasn't. So I want you to take a look around. See if there's anything that stands out. Looks awry.”

“Isn't that a little vague?” Club had said, holding the Chief's gaze.

“You're a police officer, boy,” the Chief replied. “You know how to pick something out that don't belong?”

Club had felt his jaw muscles clench and his vision grow shady. He'd said that he would go, turning back only to ask how the Chief could be sure that Nora wouldn't return while he was looking. The Chief promised he would take care of that part.

At the end of the week, the Chief summoned Club into his office. “A report should've come in,” he said. “I want you to take care of it.”

Club nodded.

The Chief walked behind his desk. “Might've been made by someone at Ay-Ay-Ay, might be the grease monkey over at that flashy Mobil. Could even be Al. Somebody fancying himself some kind of detective.”

Club crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn't sure where this was going, and he never liked to be in the dark where the Chief was concerned. The Chief used him as a battering ram, always had, but Club knew he was capable of much more than that.

“Whoever it is suspects intentional damage to an engine,” the Chief continued. He was tapping idly with one hand on the keyboard, not hard enough to depress any keys. “Red Honda Civic.” The Chief paused again. “Alpha kilo golf, one niner four seven.”

Then Club understood how the Chief had given him the time he needed at Nora's house.

But when he went looking, there was no report.

Would an obvious tampering job go unnoticed, especially with that same car now driving around perfectly fine? Club knew it was being driven—he'd seen Nora in it.

The pieces clicked together. Club figured out who else might have had his hands on Nora's car. Someone who, even if he did put things together, wouldn't go to the police.

Club felt relief seep into him. His father had brawn without brains, but Club possessed both. He'd never make the same mistake the old man had.

Club took the Mountaineer. When the Chief went off duty, he left it parked in the lot by the barracks.

Just the other day the Chief had gone from shift patrols—one man on at a time, round-the-clock—to partnering them and daytime-only coverage. Club wasn't entirely behind him on it. Lurcquer had objected loudly as well, the day the Chief paired him back up with Landry, and Club had been glad for the support, though he didn't generally side with Lurcquer on anything.

But the Chief wanted things back to normal.

“We've had a bit of a shake-up,” he'd said. “And we've dealt with that well. But there are civilians to think of. They're going to start wondering what's wrong. I don't want people feeling scared in their beds at night.”

The SUV tolerated Club's driving—no, more than that: it welcomed it. Its tires pulverized banks of snow when he rode up too high and took every bend without sliding. Too bad there was only one such vehicle. Maybe Club would be granted it officially someday.

Once the Mountaineer would've gone to Brendan, along with everything else. Club had accepted that, even though Brendan wasn't cut out for the job the same way he was. Both their fathers had been cops, but Brendan's old man had been pretty lackluster, while Club's had been a pitbull, ready to face off with anything. His father's ways were a legacy to live up to, even if his end had to be avoided at all costs. And now Brendan's end had come about prematurely as well, which put Club in an altogether different position, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Could you miss someone like hell and still be glad they were gone?

Club steered around the huge boulder, which used to be such an obstacle when they drove out here in high school to get wasted. When you were stoned, the rock seemed to have faces in it, to look at you with eyes. Now Club was glad for the rock. For a while it had served as guard, as sentry, preventing sight of the torn-up patches of earth. No adult was likely to drive way the hell out here, especially in winter, but kids just might. And now it would be okay if they did. The holes were covered with snow, the ground blank and white as a sheet. Come springtime, when the dirt thawed, they'd have to redo their work by hand, deeper into the woods. But it'd been hard to get Paulson's bucket loader in even as far as this.

Club made a full circle around the looming boulder and drove out.

Time for the real purpose of the night.

When he knocked on the door of the first-floor apartment, one of only a few such buildings in town, Club was met with wild eyes. “Whoa,” he said, extending both hands, palms up. “I'm just here because of Dave. He wants us to meet him.”

“Dave?” Dugger repeated. “Save, pave, cave.”

Club waited patiently till the rhymes petered out. Then he said, “Come on.”

Dugger noticed the loaded gun rack on the Mountaineer as soon as they got outside. “Dave's gone hunting?” he asked.

Club nodded. “When he's got the urge, he's got the urge.”

Dugger didn't respond to that.

Club opened the passenger door, stopping himself from buckling Dugger in, but only just. The rest of them had grown up, found women, jobs, lives of their own. Dugger never had, though he was older than they were. He had Al, and he had his mother. That was about it.

Club drove in the opposite direction of the woods he'd just come from, heading into other desolate wilderness.

“Not much out in the dark,” Dugger said, his voice steady. “Lark, spark—”

This time Club cut him off. “Maybe he's after coons.”

He swiveled the big wheel with one arm and pulled up hard beside a ditch. The woods spread out all around them, nothing visible besides snow and limbs.

Club opened his door and jumped down. He reached above him to take down his gun, cocking it, and locking.

Dugger joined him on a high-drifted heap. “Where's Dave?”

This was almost too easy. Club pointed. “In there.” He led the way.

They had gotten half a mile in when Dugger finally made the connection. His mind didn't work like other people's did, sometimes he failed to take logical leaps at all.

“Didn't see Dave's car.”

That was when Club swung.

He used the rifle to knock Dugger to his knees, bashing him in the shoulder, deciding to avoid the head for now.

Dugger's face was hanging, spittle drizzling out onto the snow.

“Dave?” he said in a whimper.

Club stood over him. “You always did like to track, kid,” he said. “But tonight you tripped and fell into me. My rifle discharged. I can make it look like an accident. That's if anyone would miss you enough to report you gone.”

His voice was a harsh rasp by this point, emitting labored puffs of white into the dark night. He had the feeling Dugger didn't understand a word of what he was saying.

His head was still dangling, and he'd started to bring one careful hand to his shoulder.

Club jabbed him again with the butt of the gun, hard enough that Dugger screamed, a high, pathetic scream, like a mountain cat or a woman. Not a woman. Dugger was more like a kid, forever surprised that anything could hurt this much. His head dropped so low that his bare face brushed the snow.

“You're helping her and I want you to stop,” Club ordered. “Understand?”

“Grand, stand, lend a hand—”

“Cut it out!” Club yelled, louder than he'd intended, frustration a fever inside him. By sheer will, thinking only of his old man and what happened when he'd lost control, Club forced his voice to drop. “You get me, you retard? You know what I'm telling you to do?”

Dugger lifted his face, partially flecked with white and dripping. He was trying to rub his shoulder, flinching every time he did, then bringing his hand up again as if he'd forgotten what effect it would have.

Words came to Club with a blinding jolt. The guys on the force thought he was loyal to Nora for Brendan's sake. But Club wasn't loyal to anyone.

“Leave her alone. Or I'll hurt her next.”

Then he left Dugger there in the snow.