I WOKE AT dawn to the crack of a gunshot. Outside, Chevy was barking wildly. I rushed to the window in time to see Steve hunched over and racing past my vegetable patch. He was headed for the woods, hopping and limping as fast as he could move. In his hands was a rifle.
Early-morning mist still hung in the air. I ran outside in a panic. What the hell had he seen? I called out, but he’d disappeared. Chevy came back, her ears flattened with fear. I went to the barn for my shotgun. I hate the thing, but it has its uses for scaring off animals.
The shotgun was gone, the ammunition scattered across the floor.
Calling to Chevy, I headed toward the woods. The morning was dead calm, but angry crows flapped and cawed overhead. I found Steve sitting at the base of a tree, hugging my gun. He was shaking.
“Steve, what the hell?”
He looked at me like he didn’t see me. Blinked.
I could tell he wasn’t there. He was somewhere else. I reached out and took the gun. That seemed to bring him back, because he rubbed his face and shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said. “Crows. They…they were getting at the vegetables.”
We said nothing as we walked back to the house. He was still shaking. When we got inside, he took a long look at the beer in the fridge. But he started in on breakfast. He flipped between fridge and stove without saying a word.
“Does that happen often?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Weird things set it off. This time it was the birds.”
“Did the army give you help?” I was one to talk. Social services had offered me help more times than I could count. I’d sat in front of the counselor, quiet as a mouse.
“The best thing is keeping busy. Today I’m going back to Hawley Bay for an oil-filter housing for the truck. The poor girl took quite a beating driving across Canada from Calgary.”
Once he’d gone I took the shotgun back to the barn. I thought about hiding it. In the end, I hid the ammunition in my bedroom. I didn’t know how to help him, but at least I could keep us safe.
Breathing easier, I tackled a few chores around the place. My first surprise was the garden shed. The potting table was tidy, and the floor was swept. All the tools were hung on nails along the wall. Military neat. This must be part of his keeping busy. It had its uses. I should tell him about the fourteen lawn mowers buried in the raspberry patch, I thought.
I pulled up some carrots and onions to take to Aunt Penny’s place. Beside her cash register was a stack of newspapers, including the local Madrid News. As Aunt Penny paid me, she said nothing about Steve, but the newspapers gave me an idea.
So for the second time in two days, I walked into the library. This time I didn’t feel like an idiot. I was too excited to pay any attention to the curious looks.
The library had a small stack of Madrid News. I looked through them, but none were older than six months. A sign told me to ask the librarian for older editions. I groaned. Susie Wilson had been a bookworm even back in school. I’d never dared talk to her. I kept my eyes down as I mumbled my question.
She brightened. “How old?”
“Nineteen eighty-five?”
Her smile disappeared. “We don’t keep newspapers that old. We don’t have the storage space.”
I bobbed my head. The little library was barely the size of a living room. “Does anybody keep them?”
“Oh yes, there’d be digital records in the main branch down in Queenston. Mind you, that far back the papers might be on microfilm.”
I opened my mouth to ask what microfilm was, but stopped. No point looking like even more of an idiot. My heart sank. I didn’t want to drive two hours, maybe for nothing. “You’re sure they have the Madrid News?”
“Well, we can check.” Susie turned to her computer and typed and clicked her way through a blur of screens. Finally she frowned at the screen. “Yes, they do, but you have to request them in advance.” She laughed. “They’re probably in some librarian’s basement.”
I sneaked a glance at her. “How do I…?”
“You want me to request them for you?”
“It…it’s probably not worth it.”
“You could always ask the editor. Dan Picard. He’s been around awhile. I know he took a bunch of old boxes from the newspaper office when he became the only full-time reporter. Knowing Dan, they’re probably still in his basement.” She picked up her cell phone. “I can call him if you like.”
I was already backing away. “That’s okay. I know where he lives. Thanks.”
Dan Picard had bought an old scrub farm that was even more useless than mine. Instead of trying to grow things, he’d let it go wild, and in his spare time he made furniture and carvings from the deadwood on his land. Chairs, benches and arbors were for sale in his front yard, in case anyone happened to drive by.
When I pulled up, three dogs raced around the side of the house, barking. I was just saying hello to them when Dan appeared from the back. A pair of safety goggles was propped on his bald head, and sawdust covered every inch of him.
“Rick!” He shoved out one dusty hand. Dan and I had worked on a couple of cottage jobs together. I’d built the decks, and he’d furnished them. We both loved creating things out of wood. But Dan also created poems, something that left me in the dust.
He brushed himself off and headed inside to get two beers. I went around back to his workshop to check out his latest project. The burnt smell of freshly milled wood hung in the air. Two large planks of pine sat on the table, and others were propped against it, waiting to be sanded.
“It’s going to be a dining table for the Harrisons,” he said behind me. “A commission. I might even make a few dollars this year, to supplement the meager editor’s pay.”
I stalled, looking for a way to begin. I sipped my beer and admired the wooden bowls that lined the shelves. I ran my finger over the sanded plank. Finally he said, “Okay, Rick. My humble abode is nowhere near yours, or anyone else’s, for that matter. What brings you here?”
I translated that into plain words. Grinned, suddenly shy. “Susie Wilson says you have old copies of the Madrid News stored here.”
“That I do, in the cellar. I haven’t looked at them in years. What are you looking for?”
“Nineteen eighty-five?”
Dan’s eyebrows shot up. “Were you even born?”
I shrugged. “I’m looking for news about a man’s death.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name. A stranger from Alberta. He froze to death out on the snowmobile trail. I figure it should be in the news.”
“Why the interest?”
I guess old reporters never lose their nose for news. I tried to sound casual. “I’m helping a friend trace his family. A…a distant friend.”
“I wasn’t at the paper in 1985, but my predecessor did leave boxes of back issues. When I moved the newspaper office out here, I brought everything with me. You’re welcome to check. They’re a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. It will take a while to go through them. No guarantees.”
“How many boxes?”
“Oh, could be fifty?”
He must have seen my dismay. He knew reading was not my strong suit, because a half beat later he said, “Do you want me to check them out for you?”
I turned red with relief. As I turned to go, I thanked him. He gave me another curious look. “You’re going to a lot of trouble for a distant friend.”