Keeping the Peace (5 page)

“Where the hell is Woody? It’s gonna take me some time here. We need them flashers.”

“Becky has him on the way,” the chief shouted back.

Larry Sample spat tobacco juice out the open window of the wrecker. Untrimmed gray hair frizzled out from under his frayed and greasy Red Sox ball cap. He wore a full beard, and there were icicles hanging from under his nose. The icicles were slightly brown, tinged by perpetual flying tobacco juice. He was not a pretty sight, but every man there was glad to see him.

“Hey, you, Bub,” called Larry again, pointing at the little driver.

“You mean me?” the driver shouted, puffing out his chest. “My name ain’t Bub. It’s Boulanger.”

“Whatever,” said Larry good-naturedly. “Climb up here with me. We gotta go round, and you gotta help me hook on.”

The driver nodded and leaped nimbly into Larry’s battered wrecker. Steve was scrambling to clear the traffic. Larry was especially famous for going where he wanted to go when he wanted to go there without looking in his rearview mirror first. John helped Bruno hold the traffic at bay until the wrecker had made its way via River Street to the other side of the bridge. He heard the gears crunch as Larry backed up to the crippled tractor.

John could now see flashing yellow lights coming through the snow. “Looks like Woody made it,” he said. “Steve, you’ve been on all night. You better get home and catch some sleep. The power might go, and then we’ll need everybody on.”

John could see the young man’s eyes were heavy with fatigue. He clapped Bruno’s shoulder with his right hand and physically propelled him toward the cruiser. Bruno stumbled off, climbed into the car, and drove away. John gave a short, sharp sigh and trudged back to talk to the maintenance chief, Woody Patterson, who was placing detour signs with flashing yellow lights in front of the bridge abutments.

“We didn’t need this, John,” the man shouted to John. “We didn’t need this now. This thing won’t get fixed before spring now. No way. No way we can do it. I hope you soaked him good with a ticket. Was he legal on that bridge? What’d ya wanna bet he wasn’t legal.”

John sighed. “The bridge wasn’t plowed or sanded, Woody. It wasn’t the driver’s fault. Better make sure those flashers are good. This snow is blinding. I haven’t seen it like this in years, even when we were in Maine.”

“It’s heavy, too, John. I’m saying we’ll lose power.”

“I wish people would just stay off the roads,” muttered John, more to himself than anyone. “Keep in touch with me today, Woody. I’m going to make a pass through town. If there’s nothing going on, I’ll be back at my office.”

Both men looked up as an earsplitting, metal on metal screeching sound filled the air. Through the snow, they could see the tractor slowly being winched back up onto solid ground. There was a huge
pop,
and what was left of the bridge abutment shattered, as though it had been dynamited. The truck cab bounced on its own tires and settled back on the roadway.

“Ah, Larry!” Woody said, agonized and stamping his foot in the snow.

“I think he did you a favor,” John remarked, heading back toward his vehicle. “Now you can start from scratch. A good project for next summer. You better start hammering the finance committee now.”

Woody shook his head, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket, and turned away.

The beleaguered police chief climbed into the Suburban and backed out onto the street. He was glad to note that most of the traffic had cleared. It looked as though those who were going to work had finally arrived there and everyone else had thankfully elected to stay home. He decided to swing over Poplar Road, which looped halfway around the western border of the town. He would make a quick check at that end for any trouble and then return to the station over the back road.

Chapter Four

P
OPLAR
R
OAD
W
AS
L
IKE
S
O
M
ANY
R
OADS
that traverse small Vermont towns. It was a dirt road, wider than most, and due to municipal growth that had taken place over the last ten years, it had become one of the major roads in town, even though it hadn’t been originally designed for the traffic it now handled. Poplar Road extended from the state highway, back into the hills where new houses were being built or old houses, like John’s, were being reclaimed. It continued up one side of the ridge of the small mountain that made the western border of Clark’s Corner and down the other. John had just reached the top when his cell phone went off. He grabbed it out of the console where he had thrown it that morning and spoke into it.

“Hello? Hello?” There was nothing. Melanie’s number was showing on the screen, but the storm must have knocked out reception. He put the phone back in the console, opting to call her when he got back to the station. He continued to crawl along through the storm. On top of the hill, the wind was whipping the snow into a white-out, and he had to be careful. Suddenly, the radio called out to him. He picked it up.

“Yeah,” he said.

“John, there’s an accident,” Becky’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Look, get Cully on it. He’s a first responder. I’m way the hell up Poplar Road.”

“The ambulance is deployed. Cully’s already there.”

“Well, I’ll be—”

“John! John, listen to me. It’s Melanie and Mia.”

Her comment didn’t register at first. He thought she was saying it was Melanie and Mia on the radio. “What? What did you say?”

“Melanie and Mia got hit, John. They got broadsided.”

“Becky?”

“I don’t know anything except Cully got called out. Melanie called in on nine-one-one. It’s right down in the middle of town. Please drive carefully.”

Now he understood. His mouth went dry, and he could barely see where he was going, but it had nothing to do with the driving snow.

“They hurt? Are they hurt, Becky?” He was having difficulty controlling the encroaching panic.

“Well, Melanie called in, so…oh, John, I don’t know. It happened right down in the middle of town, at the intersection. Cully just left. Please be careful. I’ll take care of things here.”

He clipped the radio back in its holder and shook his head, confused. Melanie and Mia were home. They had to be. But apparently, they weren’t. What were they doing out? He tried to push the Suburban faster, but he dared not slip off the road. Wild thoughts raced through his head. To calm himself, he concentrated on the facts: Melanie had called in, so she had at least been able to use her cell. Mia. Mia would have been riding in the passenger seat. They couldn’t have been going very fast, but they had been hit on the side, Becky said. Fighting his way down the mountain road, John felt weak with fear. He found himself thinking of his daughter, thinking back to when she was born. She had been born fast. They almost hadn’t made it to the hospital before the eight-pound baby girl burst into the world, wailing for her first meal. They’d named her Mia after John’s grandmother.

Melanie’s mother had been nasty about the name. She’d laughed when she heard it and said sarcastically, “So Mia, is it? Mama Mia. Did you name her after the song or the spaghetti sauce?”

Melanie had been furious, but John had only laughed back, saying, “No, we named her in honor of my grandmother.” He’d said “in honor of” on purpose.

He thought of his pet name for her. Mouse. He had called her that since her mother had dressed her as a tiny mouse, complete with a pink-eared headband and a long tail, for her first Halloween. Born in August, Mia was too tiny to walk across the stage at the town hall for the annual Halloween pageant, but Melanie had dressed her up anyway, and John carried her across the stage, holding her high for all to see. Mia had continued to live in the same manner as she had been born. She was fast and fearless, dashing ahead, sometimes rashly. John couldn’t count the times he had plucked her out of one danger or another. Still, she continued to thrive in spite of herself, growing tall and lean, with long, dark blond hair and light brown, almost green, eyes. Naturally athletic, she rode the endurance trail riding circuit in the summer and led the school ski team in the winter. To John, his wife’s rosy skin, blond hair, and blue eyes were beautiful enough, but their daughter was possessed of a more arresting, mercurial beauty, as though the exotic, mysterious magnetism of the first Mia shone through, softening and illuminating the icy, northern Yankee beauty with an inner fire.

When he’d left their home this morning, his daughter had been sleeping safe in her bed under the eaves of the warm stone house. But now? He stifled the horrible, random thoughts playing in his head, giving an involuntary, sharp hiccup, almost a dry sob, as he bent closer and closer over the steering wheel.

At last, he could make out the main street in front of him. He swung out of the steep road, blasting through a large snow drift left by the plows, and made for the intersection. He could see flashing blue lights alongside the red lights of the ambulance. He felt as though he were running through water. The world seemed altogether silent. The snow seemed to have muffled everything, even the swish of the wiper blades. Finally, he was there. He shut the Suburban off in the middle of the street and jumped out. He saw his wife. She was standing near the passenger side of her Jeep Grand Cherokee. The side was crumpled and the door was popped open. He could see that the window had been shattered.

John strained every sense in his body as he ran forward. A gust of blowing snow blinded him, and he brought his hand up to wipe his eyes.

“John!” Melanie cried out.

Now he could see her, running toward him, holding out her arms. They clasped hands and held on, each seeking a life preserver in the other.

“Is she hurt bad?” he made himself ask.

“No, no, I don’t think so. She’s conscious and talking. Cully’s putting the collar on her, though. Come quickly.”

He let her lead him to the side of the crumpled vehicle. He fell on his knees beside the stretcher, his blood thundering in his ears.

“Daddy,” said the girl, reaching out.

Cully was tightening the straps on the stretcher.

“Mouse,” John said, willing himself to stay calm. He looked into her eyes. They were equal and reactive. He began to relax a little. Her color was good.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whined. “I made Mom go out because I wanted to pick up Emmie. We wanted to spend the day together, and her mother wouldn’t drive or let her take the car.”

“Shh,” John quieted the girl. “Mouse, are you okay? Anything feel broken or hurt bad?”

“No, Daddy. I’m fine. I think my shoulder hurts. I’m not sure.”

“Well, we’ll get you looked at.” He put his hand on her forehead and smoothed back her hair.

“Where’s Mom?”

Melanie stepped up. “Right here, baby. Let Cully finish tying you in.”

“I’m fine, really, Cully.” Mia’s eyes turned toward to the young man fussing over the clamps on the straps that held her to the stretcher. She had known Tim Cully all her life and treated him more like a sibling than anything else. “Let me up. I can sit all right.”

“Can’t do that Mia,” said Cully, posturing importantly. “You might have some kind of injury we don’t know about and—”

It was then that an anxious voice suddenly spoke from behind them. “Let me through, please. I just want to know if the girl’s all right!”

John and Melanie turned and peered through the blowing snow. Someone was pushing through the small crowd of bystanders.

Even in the confusion surrounding the accident and her obvious concern for Mia, John noticed that his wife seemed intently focused on the stranger. He was handsome, almost pretty, a little older than Cully, perhaps, with wavy brown hair. He was rail thin and ridiculously dressed for the present weather in cowboy boots, black jeans, and a long black leather coat. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and he was hunched against the wind. He extended his black gloved hand to Melanie. John was not surprised. Melanie had that effect on every man.

“I’m Gabriel Strand,” he said. “I skidded and hit you. I’m so sorry. Is she all right?”

Still kneeling beside his daughter, John felt the girl tremble. Alarmed, he turned away from the stranger and gripped her hand.

“Mouse—Mia,” he said urgently, “are you okay?”

“Daddy! Daddy!” she said in an almost hysterical whisper. “What did he say his name was? Is it Gabriel Strand? Daddy! Listen to me!”

John knelt there, confused. He turned to look again at the young man who was still holding Melanie’s hand and talking to her intently. Then, Cully and the other EMT were raising Mia on her stretcher off the ground, preparing to load her into the ambulance. The stranger, apparently loath to let go of Melanie’s hand, stepped up and bent over Mia.

“Look,” he said, “I’m really sorry. I really am. I hope you’re okay.”

“Excuse us, please,” said Cully. “You’re interfering, sir.”

They carried Mia to the back of the ambulance and hoisted her in, John in attendance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Melanie put both arms around the young man in a reassuring hug. Then he saw her step slowly free of him and flash one of her brilliant smiles. Melanie had always been friendly and free with her smiles to the point where an undercurrent of gossip centering around their marriage was always present on the lips of certain local individuals who enjoyed speculating on those things. Usually, John laughed it off, or they laughed together about the latest rumor that filtered back to them, but this time, an uneasy feeling settled over him. Well, maybe she knew who he was, he thought, or more likely, he was overreacting due to the stress of the situation. He shrugged it off and turned back to his daughter.