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WE SPRINTED DOWN THE road toward Art Lam’s farmhouse, the only building visible on the stretch of narrow road. “Farmhouse” was probably too grandiose a name for it. The building was a single-story kit home with battered sand-colored siding and a rust-splotched, white metal roof.
Emma and I knocked and rang the doorbell, then tried the front door. It didn’t budge.
“It’s locked,” I said stupidly.
“Of course it’s locked,” Emma scoffed. “Where do you think we are, Mayberry?”
“I can’t get a signal here.” I pressed buttons on my cell phone, finally shaking it in frustration, as if that would force the recalcitrant device to see things my way. Water droplets plopped onto my face and bare arms, and I noted, in a sort of detached way, I felt cold.
“My carrier doesn’t even pretend to get reception way out here. Maybe we should go back and wait by the car till someone drives by and flag them down.”
“Out here? No way. I don’t want to end up with my head in someone’s freezer.”
“Maybe there’s a phone in the house,” Emma said. “I’m gonna look for a way in. What? You get any better ideas?”
Emma disappeared around the corner of the house. I didn’t like the prospect of breaking and entering, but our only other option was to leave the scene without calling anyone, and that didn’t seem right either. I set off after Emma. On the side of the house, access to the two small windows was blocked by heaps of black plastic plant pots and macadamia nut husks. (A byproduct of local mac nut production, the husks apparently make a wonderful mulch for phosphorus-depleted soil. I’d learned all about it in my gardening club.)
“Hey, Emma,” I called. “Maybe we should just drive back up to town until we get a signal—”
A vitreous crash interrupted me.
“Got it,” Emma yelled. I ran around to the back of the house to see Emma’s stubby leg disappearing through a window.
“Emma, what did you do?”
She poked her head back out.
“It was stuck. I hadda break it. Go back around to the front.”
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I followed Emma into the house. It smelled like cigarettes, pine cleaner, and stale coffee.
“Those jalousie windows are way too flimsy. An’ you leave a paint bucket right under the window, you’re just asking to get broken into. Hello?” Emma called out.
We crossed the living room en route to the kitchen.
“Hello?” I echoed. No answer. The house was empty, as far as we could tell.
We finally found a phone, a wall-mounted, rotary dial model.
Emma picked up the receiver and listened, then dialed.
The nine took an excruciatingly long time to ease back to its home position. The two ones, which followed, went much faster.
“Hello?” Emma said. “Eh, we get one emergency. Nah, too late. Address?”
I scrambled to dig through my bag in search of the address, with no success.
“We’re down at Art Lam’s place,” Emma said. “You know Art Lam, right? So there’s a dead body. No, I didn’t ID him. Actually, I don’t know. We’re not sure it’s a whole body.”
I made a face, and Emma shrugged as if to say, “Sorry.”
“We didn’t take a close look,” she continued. “Yes. Yes, I do. No, I’m not. Okay, we’ll wait.”
Emma replaced the receiver.
“They’ll be here as soon as they can.”
“Looks like the eco-loonies mean business,” I said. We were silent for a moment, contemplating Art Lam’s green and gold shag carpet.
“All right,” Emma said. “Let’s get those panes back in the window before the cops get here. As far as they know, we found the door unlocked. Right?”