Cover of Snow (24 page)

Toward the back of Jean's foursquare was an attic crawlspace she had never bothered to finish. I figured that if Brendan's aunt, who had lavished such care on her house, didn't do much with that space, then there was a good chance Eileen had left hers alone as well.

Aware of the thud of boots on the porch, I raced down a threadbare length of rug along Eileen's hallway. I got down on the floor in a crouch and pulled open the little door. People stowed cartons or vacuum cleaners or buckets in here; it wasn't sized for a human. I lay on my belly and wriggled into the dark, gritty channel. Squeezing myself into a ball, I pulled the door shut.

I blinked a few times, willing my eyes to adjust to the dark. Then I army-crawled along the strip of dirty sub-floor so that I would be as far away from the opening as possible. I scooted ahead a few final paces, hitting the wall hard with the tips of my fingers, and stifling a bark of pain.

I could make out other noises now. The creak of stairs sinking beneath someone's heavy tread, a steady pace of footsteps down the hall. The sounds ceased just outside the low door that concealed me. I lay there motionless, not daring to blink.

The door opened and a column of light shot in. I remained on my belly, breathing hard as my thoughts continued racing forward.

How had he done it? Whoever stood outside now had tracked me as surely as if I'd left a trail of bread crumbs. His stride had been loud, methodical; he'd made not a single wrong turn or misstep, nor taken any effort to conceal his approach.

“What the fuck are you doing?” asked a voice that was faintly recognizable.

Not the voice of my attacker, and scared as I was, something in me blossomed with relief.

Still, I had no idea what to say. Part of me wanted to throw my arms over my head and play possum. Maybe he was bluffing; didn't know anybody was in here at all.

“Get out of there, Nora,” Tim Lurcquer said. “Now.”

It was humiliating to slide out of the crawlspace on my stomach backwards, like some errant hide-and-seeker, and even more humiliating to be terrified as I did it, limbs rattling like loose pipes so that I fell forward and smacked my nose once, bringing tears to my eyes.

When I reached the entry and started to rise, Tim loomed above me, an implacable wall of gray. He reached down and grabbed my arm, yanking me roughly to my feet.

“What are you doing here?” He spoke through gritted teeth as he dragged me down the hall.

“Nothing,” I stammered, mind scrambling. “I mean, I wanted to see if I could find my mother-in-law.” Maybe playing the family card would buy me something. “Offer help with the arrangements for Jean.”

“You were looking for her in the crawlspace?” Tim said.

We had reached the stairs. He was still gripping my arm, but he had relaxed his hold a little now that he had me. What was he planning to do? I had to skip a step to keep up with him, and I lunged awkwardly, twisting my ankle. Again, I stifled a bleat of pure pain.

Then I gave up all pretense. I couldn't deceive Tim; obviously there was no good reason for my having been where I was. And if he wanted to hand me over to the Chief—or to somebody worse—then I couldn't stop him. All I could do was fall back on the thing that'd been hanging me up ever since Ned told me his theory about the police. I knew these men. They'd been both friend and family to my husband.

“What happened to Jean, Tim?” I asked, low. “Do you know?”

He glanced at me. I looked at his small, pressed-together features, searching for a hint of kinship or kindness in his narrow eyes.

“We're questioning a vagrant. He's been staying in one of the unwinterized cabins nearby.” Still holding on to me, Tim pulled me toward the front room. He yanked the curtains apart and squinted outside.

I stared at him. Even I could discern the difference between a robbery and an execution. “Jean was shot in the back of her head,” I said. “From the look on her face, she had no idea what was coming at all.”

“That's right,” Tim replied blandly, still looking outside. “Also, in all the years Jean Hamilton occupied that house, no one ever thought she had anything worth stealing.” He dropped the curtain back into place. “So we gotta ask ourselves, what's changed? Who was she spending time with, what was she doing that was different before she was killed?”

He looked at me significantly, eyes narrowing till they were almost shut.

I gave an experimental tug to try to free my arm. Tim's fingers bore down. My voice came out small, choked. “Am I under suspicion?” If the police were wondering about my role in things, then Ned had it completely wrong. Far from being the overlords of Franklin County, these cops were idiots, with no clue what was really going on.

Of course, the best defense was a good offense.

Tim was still regarding me, the familiar, appraising look of a cop.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “Ms. Hamilton was coming into a large insurance payout. Or maybe she kept cash around. And this asshole went looking for it.”

Jean did keep cash in the house. She'd given me some before we went to bed, to replace the lost funds in my wallet.

The radio let out a crackle of static at Tim's waist. I heard some codes, a whole combination of numbers, and watched Tim react. Something in his face changed, or maybe it was his stance. I felt his grasp loosen. And in the split second he gave me, I tore away. I ran for the front door and pulled it open. My car was a red beacon. I heard the steady thump of Tim's boots behind me, but kept running. I stumbled in the deep snow, and realized as I threw my arms out to protect myself, and icy chunks slid up the cuffs of my shirt, that I had forgotten my coat.

But my keys were in my jeans. I had learned never to let those off my person.

The temperature in the car had to be hovering around zero, and my entire body spasmed with cold. I could die out here like this, but I didn't have a choice in the matter right now. Tim was standing on the buried lawn, just feet from his patrol car.

I twisted the key in the ignition once, then twice, the second try followed by a startling screech from the engine. I lurched into gear and reversed onto the road. Patchy Hollow was empty, an unfurling ribbon of white between woods. My car hurtled down the middle of it, avoiding the snow flanking both sides, keeping to the plowed center.

And then it wasn't empty anymore. Before the roar of the motor could reach me, I caught a faraway glimpse of Club's Jimmy barreling down the road. I saw the black slash of Weekend's snout thrust out as if he were scenting something.

I glanced left and right. Up ahead was an opening in the high wall of snow, a snowmobile trail carved through the leafless trees. I wrenched my wheel to one side and jolted onto it. The trail was narrow and twisting; my tires rose up against snowdrifts, causing the body of the car to settle back down with a jaw-cracking bounce. I slowed abruptly, inching forward until I could be sure that no spot of red would be seen from the road.

Then I sat and waited for the sound of Club's engine to dissipate as he raced by.

The first thing I did was check my jeans for the photograph. It had slid down my leg and gotten slightly crumpled during my maneuvers; a white crease bisected the boy's T-shirt now. But the word on it was still discernible, and so was his face.

The cops had found me at Ned's office. They'd found me at Eileen's. Wedeskyull was their land more than it would ever be mine. I needed to go where no one would ever think to look for me.

But first I had to buy a coat.

The sun was rising in the sky, blinding against the vast vistas of white, when I reached the road into town. I took my foot off the gas, and pulled over to the shoulder. My car was too recognizable to stay put for long, but I needed to assess my options. The blowers were finally emitting hot enough air that I had stopped shivering, and an uncertain sun had emerged. I reached up, squinting, to pull the visor down, and a piece of paper dropped out.

I looked around to make sure the road was empty, then unfolded the sheet.

My heart immediately started an uneven thronging in my chest as I beheld the scrawled signature.

Ned.

He was alive. I realized only as my vision started to swim that I had been convinced he wasn't—and what a second gap of loss this had left.

I'm all right, and if you're reading this then you are, too. I won't be able to surface for a while, and you need to go somewhere as well. I would come for you, but it would only make things worse. They'll be looking for me now.

Those last six words clanged like a bell. I took a rapid look around, then read the rest of the note.

I had no idea they would go this far. Next time we see each other, I promise I will never say you don't look at things straight again.

Next time we saw each other. Swallowing hard, I checked the road, then pulled out and headed into town.

A stack of maps sat in my glove compartment. One was of New England, one was of New York State, and the southeastern region was spottily covered by a road trip Brendan and I had once taken to Disney World. But I didn't own a single one addressing the cobweb of roads that made up Franklin County. My explorations here had been limited. And without a map, I didn't stand a chance of finding the tiny spot of habitation amidst a blowing world of white that would be Cold Kettle.

It was probably only twenty or thirty miles from Wedeskyull, but they were miles best left alone in the dead of winter.

I would simply have to find a road that stayed open, meaning the plows went through every few days. Because I had a feeling, sure and pressing as a lump in my throat, that whoever or whatever was responsible for Brendan's death was now rallying forces, closing in. By winter's end, any hope of finding out the truth would be gone, too.

The best place to buy local maps was the Mobil station across from Al's garage. I didn't want to linger in town, but right now the need for a map was nearly as urgent as that for a coat. Just a brief stop, I told myself. Nothing could happen to me in broad daylight, out in plain sight.

If the Chief, propelled by Gilbert or Tim, decided to identify my whereabouts, how easy would it be for him to do it? I imagined gray patrol cars, leaving their barracks like insects, swarming out across the streets of Wedeskyull.

I entered the everything-store in town—junk food, soda, hardware, small appliances, cleaning supplies, toys, paperbacks, and music, in addition to clothes—and began jogging through the aisles, snatching winter gear off the racks. I gave a longing thought to the tools, just one row away, but no time for that now. No time even for a toothbrush.

“Hello, Mrs. Hamilton.”

I stopped in my tracks in the middle of the aisle. I didn't turn around. The silence grew thick and dense behind me.

“Need help finding anything today?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the clerk in her pink smock. “No. Thank you. I'm done.”

The clerk took my items out of my hands and carried them up to the register. I shifted from foot to foot as I waited, looking out the broad windows along the front of the store.

“That'll be forty-seven dollars and six cents.”

I paid, using a chunk of Jean's cash, and the clerk began to bag my items.

“I can just take those,” I said, reaching for the winter gear and pulling it on as I continued to steal glances outside.

“Nora.” A hand settled on my arm, and the zipper I was yanking up gave a high whine.

“I've been meaning to drop by ever since we came home. I'm so sorry we were away for the funeral. And then we got here and saw your poor house—”

It was my neighbor.

“Thanks, Mrs. Melville,” I said, beginning to back toward the automatic doors. One opened behind me.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” the woman went on in an imploring tone. “I just feel so dreadful.”

“No, thank you, there's really—”

“Here, step in,” she urged. “You're letting in all the cold.”

“Mrs. Melville—”

“Where are you staying, dear? At least I could bring some dishes by.”

Someone entered the store, and my heart jumped when he had to steer around me, bumping my arm.

“And you know we do have a spare room ourselves—”

“Mrs. Melville,” I cried. “I really have to go!”

And I ran out of the store, clutching my new hat and scarf.

The Mobil On the Run smelled of old coffee, and I suppressed a ripple of nausea. I was hungry, though, despite my apprehension, and still chilled, so I filled a cup of tea and grabbed a fistful of chocolate bars. Then I crouched down before the bank of registers and fanned through the selection of maps. I pulled out the ones that covered Franklin County and the surround—some of this area extended upward to Canada—and plunked my purchases down on the counter.

“Pump number?” asked the bored clerk.

“I didn't get any gas,” I said, flicking my gaze out to the parking lot. My red car sat there like a traffic light, a stop sign. But the rest of the cars in the lot seemed innocuous enough, mostly SUVs with skis or snowboards atop their roofs.

“What's in the cup?” the clerk said in the same monotone.

“Tea,” I answered, a little frantically. I dug around in my pocket and laid a twenty on the counter. Without my pack, I felt as if something had been amputated. “Look, I think this should cover it,” I said, turning for the exit.

“Ma'am, your change!” the clerk called, finally with some intonation, but I was already at the glass door, its electronic
ding
as loud as the crescendo of a symphony as I raced across the salted expanse of asphalt, clumsy in my boots but moving fast.

When I got to my car, Dugger was sitting in the driver's seat.

He was dressed entirely in white camo. I came to a sudden halt, drink, maps, and bars wobbling in my hands. Steadying everything, I started to walk around to him, but Dugger raised one finger and pointed to the other side of the car.

I saw his lips moving behind the glass. Then he raised his voice, loud enough to be heard. “Get in, Missus,” he said, startlingly lucid before his normal singsong returned. “In, din, time for a spin—” He broke off, responding to something unseen, or at least something I wasn't seeing. “Now,” he said. No rhyming. “Please, Missus.”

I had been thinking to question him, if not refuse outright. But the tone of his voice changed my mind. I yanked open the door and dropped onto the passenger seat.

Dugger drove out of the lot, cutting cleanly in front of an SUV loaded with brawling twenty-somethings out for their day on the slopes, keeping their beast of a vehicle looming to our rear, where it blocked the sight of my little car, so that I had to twist around to see the patrol car traveling in the distance behind.