Cover of Snow (3 page)

The next day my sister was at it again.

“Look, I know you don't exactly like to deal with the tough parts.”

I frowned, but not at her. Not at anything. At everything.

“Come on, Nor,” Teggie went on, all but scoffing. “Unicorns and sunrises. Light stuff, happy stuff. That's the world you inhabit. Why do you think you couldn't hack it in the city?”

A strange memory appeared in my head. I'd been young—six or so—and I'd fallen down in my father's store. The floor was rough—I could still remember the scuffed wood that generations of workmen and contractors had trod upon—and my knee had bled for a long time. My mother had floated the possibility of stitches, but my dad had cast that idea aside in a tone not unlike Teggie's right now. “Scrapes,” my mom had said a little while later, pressing a gauze pad very tightly to my knee. “Your father does better with scrapes than cuts.”

I still had a jagged white line on my knee.

Teggie began talking again. “Why do you think Brendan did it the way he did?”

When I looked at her blankly, she went on. “Brendan was a cop. He knew his way around weapons, had access to them. So why a rope? Why hanging?”

I fiddled with a cup of tea.

“Wait a minute—you know something,” Teggie said. She must've sensed that I wasn't going to answer, because she stood up. “Where's the rope? It must still be around here somewhere.” The gruesomeness of the suggestion didn't seem to strike her.

“No, Teggie,” I said, fidgeting hard enough that the amber contents of my cup threatened to overturn. “Please.” She was younger, but she'd always been the bossy sister, the one who assigned us fake names in our games, and choreographed the shows we put on.

Teggie turned, a dancer's spin, and left the kitchen for the pen of garbage bins outside.

When she came back inside, I averted my head from the unraveling mess of rope she held against her shivering frame. But I'd already caught a glimpse of rough, splintering fibers.

“No one's gone to the dump,” my sister said. Tears filmed her eyes, and I was struck by two things. How seldom Teggie cried, and also by how much she'd loved Brendan.

I stood up and went over to the phone. There was only one person I could imagine seeing right now. Someone else who had known this rope in its deadliest incarnation.

“Nor?” My sister spoke as I dialed.

“Not now,” I said. “Don't say anything else right now. Okay? Can you just for once in your life—”

The ringing ceased and I said, “Club?” into the phone before he'd even answered.

“Yeah?”

Teggie raised her voice. It was steady again. “Take a look at this.”

“Can you come over?” I went on, loudly, to drown out my sister.

“Now? I guess so. Shift starts at four.” Club paused. “You got any news?”

Why was Club the only person who seemed to believe there might be news?

“I'll be there in a few,” he told me.

My sister stepped forward, still clutching her burden.

“I already looked at that rope.” My voice held a dreadful calm. “I wonder if you even know what's strangest about it. Me, I couldn't really help but know, what I do for a living and all.” I began to chuckle, a low, lilting laugh that scared me.

“What are you talking about?” Teggie demanded. Wisps of dry hemp drifted from her fingers like flyaway hair.

“Look at that thing,” I burst out, blindly thrusting my hand toward one frayed end of the rope. My sister was right: I couldn't face it. But I would never forget the way it had disintegrated on the back stairs. “It's a goddamned antique.”

My sister frowned. I probably cursed as rarely as she cried.

“That particular piece of rope,” I went on, “has to be over twenty years old.”

The urge came upon Eileen as it always did, when the winter sun began to fade after its brief appearance in the sky, and another long night stretched ahead. Did she spend more time in the basement below during the frigid months that dominated the calendar, seven of them at least? Eileen Hamilton wasn't sure, and she'd never been a woman given to examination of her habits.

She got up stiffly from the chair in the parlor, a basket of mending forgotten beside her. Her knees creaked as she rose, a tight, brittle sound, which if she had been more inclined to study herself might have unnerved her.

She paused to locate her key ring.

Eileen had stopped locking the upstairs door sometime in the years after Bill died and Brendan had left home. There was no reason to secure it anymore, no one to keep out. But some habits died harder than others, and she couldn't bring herself to leave the final door unguarded.

Her knees sounded again, taking the narrow column of stairs, but her stride evened out as she crossed the vast space, keeping pace with the setting sun. By the time it was full dark, she intended to be hidden away.

It was warmer down here than in the rest of the house. Eileen kept the furnace set low, but a stone foundation provided good insulation, and buffered the house from winds. She unlocked the door and went in.

As always, a feeling of deep peace descended as she took in her precious collection, only to be stolen away by a wild, rocking fury. Her gaze grew muddy, then she couldn't see at all. The hands that had dropped to her sides balled into fists. Her shoulders rose as high as her head and she looked like a bull, ready to charge.

If she made noise down here, no one would know, even if someone came around; the stone walls were too thick. So perhaps she did, probably she did, for sometimes her own ears rang after she'd been in here for a while, as if they'd been subjected to a high, shrieking wind. There was other evidence of upset. Eileen sometimes had to spend hours cleaning up afterward, restoring her perfect displays, slicking things down with fingers wetted by tears. Her nails were often bent back, their beds dark with blood, as if she'd been tearing at concrete.

She began to quiet, her thin chest heaving. Once that chest had been lofty, lush enough to nourish children. It settled to its normal flat plane, motionless, no sign of her beating heart. The only remaining movement in Eileen lived in her hands, which continued to twitch and tremor, and would, she knew, for hours, long after she escaped upstairs.

Eileen watched her fingers as if they belonged to somebody else, moving as they were of their own accord, twisting and turning the remaining section of rope.

Weekend bounded in with an energy that belied what a large dog he was. Like his master, I thought, almost smiling as my hands got their watery massage.

“Here.” Club's voice drew my attention and I looked up to see the bouquet of carnations he was thrusting in my direction. “From Dave.”

“Dave?” I asked, beginning to peel off the cellophane wrapper.

“Yeah.” Club shrugged. Only then did I recall that at the funeral, the Chief's brother was the only cop to approach me.

Teggie took the flowers before heading into the kitchen. “I'll just make some lunch or something,” she said on her way out.

“Your sister's name is Terry?” Club said, still standing in the same spot. Not long ago, this house had been like Club's own. The sofa cushions took on his shape when he sat down; he even had his own special glass. But with Brendan gone, it was as if he didn't fit here anymore. Or maybe it was I who didn't fit, and everybody was just waiting around awkwardly, wondering when I would figure that out.

“Come on in,” I said, flinching at Club's formal thanks. “It's Teggie,” I went on, trailing him. “A family name,” I added vaguely. Well, that was true enough, in a manner of speaking.

We sat down on the edges of our chairs, Club's a chintz that didn't suit him. Club blew into his hands, and I jumped up. “I can turn up the heat—”

“No, don't—”

Our wretched leanings toward politeness subsided when Weekend trotted into the room. I beckoned him over.

“Since when are you my dog's biggest fan?”

I rubbed my suddenly itchy nose and Weekend's flank simultaneously. The dog turned a few times, before lying down on my feet.

“I guess sneezing and sniffling used to bother me more.”

Club eyed me. His hand made a habitual gesture, a sort of unconscious reaching for the gun he always carried, off duty or on.

He'd been a linebacker and a right-wing at Wedeskyull High. Fifteen years from now he might be slightly soft, with that padded look muscular men get as they age. But for now Club was in top shape, face always reddened by the wind or sun, with big balls of muscle along his arms, a wide wall of a chest, and a tight, square jaw.

Brendan had described the way Club snapped handcuffs on as soon as they began questioning someone, the hours he spent at the shooting range.

I'd always been glad he and Brendan were partners. I saw it simply, in black and white terms. If you were a cop it was better to have someone by your side who might occasionally jump the gun than a man who would hesitate. In exchange for that sense of security, I was willing to ignore the sense I got from Brendan that there was a darker side to Club—not just a readiness or willingness, but an eagerness.

Of course, in the end, even Club wasn't able to protect Brendan. Not from himself.

My eyes burned as if suddenly exposed to smoke. I wanted to see my husband then, with a pull so intense I didn't think I would survive it. Weekend jumped up on the sofa, draping his body over my form, which had begun to slump.

“Thinks he's a lap dog,” Club said.

Why did Brendan do it,
I thought to ask.
Do you know? Would you tell me if you did?
But before I could speak, two solid thumps sounded on the front door. Chief Weathers pushed it open as I struggled to get the dog off of me.

“What's up, Chief?” Club asked, already on his feet.

The Chief scowled, and I realized something must be wrong. Club had known instantly, but my instincts were off, dull now that I no longer heard Brendan taking the stairs at a run, slipping into his uniform jacket as he called out for me not to wait up. Already I was losing the rhythms of a cop's life, Brendan's readiness for action, the notion that off duty spells—few and far between with such a small-town force—had to be borne until real time could begin again. I had the sudden, mad impulse to reach out and stop both men from going to whatever it was.

I settled for taking a step forward, and the police chief's face finally unfurled.

“Nothing at the moment,” he said, and Club's broad shoulders relaxed.

“Will you stay for a sandwich?” I asked, remembering belatedly how distant the Chief had been the day of Brendan's funeral.

But that earlier distance had vanished—maybe it hadn't been coldness at all, only sorrow and grief—and the Chief scuffed his boots before stepping forward into the house, and placing a pale-fleshed hand underneath my chin.

“I haven't told you yet how sorry I am,” he said, voice a low rumble. “This is more sadness than most folks have to bear in a lifetime.”

I felt tears crowd my throat. “Thank you, Vern.”

He looked across the room to Club. “She calls me Vern,” he said, and I quickly realized my mistake. The truth was, before this, I hadn't had cause to address Brendan's boss very often.

“My mama called me Vern,” the Chief went on. “My kindeygarten teacher maybe. Everyone else calls me Chief. It was my name long before I ever came to be one. Isn't that right, Mitchell?”

Club nodded.

“'Course, that was crazy.”

“What was, Chief?” Club asked.

My lips raised in a smile, for I could tell where this was going, the two men launching into some oft-repeated routine. Maybe it was paranoid of me, but I also heard another note below the humorous one, in Club's voice a sort of dutiful drone.

“Mama and my teacher calling me by my Christian name.” The Chief let out a laugh, genuine and broad. Rather than sounding ugly in this grief-stripped room, it brought back a little of its life. “They should've known I was gonna be Chief.” He raised my chin with his hand then, gaze probing. “You call me Chief. Okay?”

My throat was still thick. “Yes,” I said, low. “Okay.” The Chief's presence was like a soft, enveloping blanket. I felt myself begin to unfreeze, just a little. I leaned into his pat, the way a cat will do as it sidles past your leg.

“Next time,” he said. “I'll stay for a meal.”

The Chief turned and ambled out before either of us could say goodbye.

Late that afternoon, the phone rang. “Hello?” I said into it, but received no reply. I uttered the next inquiry more impatiently before tossing the cordless aside on the bed. Both Club and Teggie had urged me to rest. And for some reason, I had agreed, even though I didn't want to rest, had the feeling I'd already spent too much of my life resting.

My sister entered the room. “I found it.”

I was still focused on the phone. “Found what?”

“What Brendan used. In his desk drawer. Club was getting a book out of the study,” she added quickly.

I patted the bed, indicating that my sister should sit down, but she ignored me.

“Don't you want to see?”

A pause. “Yes, of course.”

She laughed, brief and bitter. “Really? Of course?”

Before I could answer, she held out her hand, palm up.

I lifted an amber plastic bottle. “Prescription pills?”

“Read the label.”

I glanced at the white sticker. The type was dark and clear, but for a moment I couldn't make out what it said at all.

“They're for Brendan,” I said at last. “You already said that.”

“Name isn't all that's on a prescription label,” Teggie said.

“Why do you sound that way?” I cried. “Why are you being so harsh?”

“Harsh?” Teggie echoed strangely. “You don't know what harsh is. You don't know what harshness you're letting yourself in for. I may not either, but I have some sense of what happens when you try and face up to the truth.” She hesitated. “I have a short lifetime's worth of cred on that subject.”

I glanced down at the label again. “The physician is Doctor Bradley. He works with the police when they need medical help.”

Teggie paused, then said, “Okay.”

“He must've been on duty when these were prescribed.”

“Keep reading.”

“The date … “

“Right,” said Teggie, her voice an ache, hardly confirmation at all.

“… was January sixteenth.” I tried to swallow past a sudden blooming in my throat. “January sixteenth?”

“Yes.”

“No,” I said stupidly.

Even Teggie had stopped speaking for the moment.

“If he got these on January sixteenth,” I said, letting the words come slowly so they didn't choke me all at once. “Then it means that Brendan planned this—that he knew what he was going to do—a week before he did it.”