Cover of Snow (7 page)

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 sparer 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 at 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?

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 chemical 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.

Eileen came onto the kitchen stoop, a coat draped over her housedress. She brimmed her eyes with one hand, squinting and wrapping the coat around herself for warmth.

I called out a hello that got carried away by the wind, then headed across a blown-bare patch of grass. It crunched under my boots like thin bones.

My mother-in-law stepped back, allowing me inside.

The avocado appliances and yellow Formica weren't old enough yet to be fashionable. I used to long to put in a period kitchen here, Shaker cabinetry, a real Hoosier.

My mother-in-law had been making tea. The electric coil on the stove glowed like an angry wound. Eileen reached up for a second cup, clattering the contents of the cupboard, making even this simple gesture look begrudging.

When she sat down at the battered tin table, I did, too.

“You'll forgive me, Nora,” Eileen said, taking a sip from her mug. “But you've never stopped by for tea before.”

I blew on my drink. This woman and I shared a dreadful loss. Why couldn't we come together over that? It struck me anew that Eileen had already experienced the death of another child. She was embittered long before I ever came along.

“I'm just—I'm so sorry, Eileen.”

Her face changed, drawing into lines.

I snatched at something to say. “I wanted to talk to you about—about a payment schedule for Jean. Brendan handled the financial stuff, and I'm afraid I'm really at a loss.”

Eileen inclined her head. “Well, I'm glad you're asking.”

“You are?”

She nodded once, a jerk of her pointy chin. “Brendan wasn't paying Jean enough, you know.”

“No. I didn't know.”

Eileen lifted her bony cups of shoulders. “I'm not saying he was deliberately taking advantage. But a hundred and fifty more—that's nine hundred a month—would be what's fair. Folks coming up from that city of yours would love Jean's house.”

Nine hundred was abjectly impossible, but I nodded anyway. “All right.”

She eyed me over the rim of her mug. “By check, first of every month. Was that all?”

It wasn't. I lifted my gaze to hers. “Did Brendan—did he used to skate?”

I thought I heard Eileen take in a whistling breath before I realized that the kettle had been left on. My mother-in-law got up to fiddle with the stove knob, answering me with her back turned. “Did he what?”

“I mean, I know he hated skating, I do know that,” I said. “Now. As an adult. But when he was young, did he used to skate?”

“What could you possibly want to know that for?”

“I'm not sure,” I muttered. An expression on my mother-in-law's face made me flinch, and I worked to speak louder. “I met Dugger Mackenzie. Do you know him?” Without waiting for a reply, I rushed on. “He told me about watching Brendan on the ice when they were boys. I just wondered why Brendan developed such a loathing for it later on.”

Eileen's gaze darkened. “You don't know anything, do you?”

I started to shake my head, but realized it might come across as agreement instead of protest.

“What did you and my son share?” she asked. “What kind of marriage could you have possibly had?”

Outrage filled me, hot and lethal as smoke. I rose from the table, careful not to knock over my cup. My vision blurred as I looked around for the door. I had lost my bearings, and made a circuit through the small room adjoining the kitchen.

There was the door. I bumped against an end table making my way toward it. The table was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room; the other, a stark, unpadded chair. The sole object on the table fell to the floor with a
thunk
and I stooped to pick it up.

Brendan's missing photo album.