Ivy drove out of Dannemora, Harrow’s jacket in the writing folder beside her, still unread. In a cartoon, wiggly red lines would have been rising from it, like there was radioactive material inside. Was it crazy that she’d never asked what any of them—El-Hassam, Perkins, Morales, Harrow—had done? But why? How was it her business? She was the writing teacher, period.
While Ivy wrestled with all that, the car-driving part of her was having ideas of its own. It didn’t seem to want to go home the normal way, was choosing the shortcut instead. Ten minutes on 374, five on narrow blacktop, and then the rutted lane, half a mile up—no sign of bear or deer at the top—and half a mile down. At the bottom, Ivy turned right onto the dirt road, passed the flat blank-faced rock, tried and failed to think of something good to write on it, and a few minutes later again dead-ended at the Wilderness Lake Cabins.
Ivy got out of the car, knocked on the door of the first cabin. The gray-haired woman opened up. She had her hair in a ponytail now, must have been stunning when she was young. Ivy smelled gin; she worked in a bar, could smell distinctions between some of the tough ones like scotch and bourbon. Straight gin was easy.
For a moment the woman didn’t recognize her. Then she did. “Couldn’t find it?”
“Oh no,” Ivy said. “I found it, thanks. Your directions were perfect. I’m back.”
Behind the woman a fire burned in a stone fireplace. Music played: opera, about which Ivy knew nothing.
“And where do you want to go now?” the woman said.
Ivy laughed. “Nowhere. I want to rent a cabin for the night.”
“This time of year?” said the woman.
“You’re closed?” Ivy said.
“Not formally,” the woman said. “I’ll have to charge you.”
Ivy had assumed that, of course. Was the woman drunk? Ivy also excelled at detecting grades of inebriation, but not this time. All she detected was that the woman’s eyes were darker than they’d been in the morning. But, through the cabin window, so was the lake, meaning they were still the same color.
“How much?” Ivy said.
“Depends whether you want me to run the generator,” the woman said.
A rifle—no, shotgun, with the double barrels—stood in one corner. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Can you get by without electricity for a night?”
Why not? Her laptop was charged and Bruce had left a flashlight in the glove box of the Saab. “Sure.”
“Can you keep a fire going?”
“Yes.”
“And remember to flush only once, before you go?”
“Okay.”
“Then you don’t need the generator,” the woman said. “Ten bucks.”
Ivy handed her the money. “Ivy Seidel,” she said.
“Jean Savard,” the woman said.
They shook hands. Jean’s was cold and clammy.
“At the top of the shortcut,” Ivy said, “I saw a bear.”
“Uh-huh,” said Jean. “Enjoy your stay.” She handed Ivy a key with 4 on it.
Cabin four was the last one, farthest from the office. Ivy unlocked the door and went inside. Cold, but perfect: knotty-pine floors, brass bed with clean white pillowcases and a rose-colored duvet, a simple desk and chair by the window overlooking the lake. Plus a stone fireplace like the one in Jean’s cabin, firewood and kindling in place. Ivy opened the flue, found matches by the poker stand, soon had a nice fire going. Way out on the lake something rippled.
Ivy sat at the desk, took Harrow’s jacket from the writing folder. At the top of the first page, a full name from the last-name zone: Evan Vance Harrow.
Then came fingerprints, both hands, fingers and thumbs. Ivy found herself examining them closely, as though they could tell her something. There was a kind of beauty in all those black whorls, reminding her of a photography exhibit about shadows and sand dunes she’d seen at the Queens MoMA. Plus wasn’t there something a bit moving in the knowledge that every single human being that had ever walked the planet shared these tiny markings? Whoa. Sometimes she was an idiot: the whole point of fingerprints was difference, not community. Was there anything different about Harrow’s fingerprints? Not visible to the naked eye, of course, or at least not to hers.
Below the fingerprints were two black-and-white photos, full face and profile, cop-show style. There was even a number around his neck—RG17859. Harrow looked a lot different in the photos. Younger, for one thing, his face—now slightly grooved between the eyes—still completely unlined. Plus his hair had been much longer and straggly, and he’d worn an ugly goatee. He was a lot better-looking now, kind of counterintuitive, since he’d spent the last—her eye roamed down the page—seven years in prison. Who got better-looking locked up?
Evan Vance Harrow. Born: New York City, thirty-one years before. Arrested: at seventeen for assault, not prosecuted; at eighteen, car theft, six months probation; at twenty, possession of burglar tools, one year, sentence suspended; at twenty-three, second-degree murder and armed robbery, twenty-five years without parole.
She paged through a few sheets of onionskin paper with not much on them.
At Dannemora: written up for fighting, week one; fighting week two; fighting week three. Week four to present: clean.
Psychologist’s report: No diagnosable malady. The prisoner has adjusted to prison life.
Not a word about a girlfriend with bad judgment, a daughter with bouncing curls, glass on glass. Ivy went through Harrow’s jacket again, felt in some weird way she knew less than before. She tried to read something in his eyes, but he had shown the camera only absence: of fear, anxiety, anger, acceptance, defiance or any other emotion you might expect. What had he been thinking? The unexpected: that was already clear from his writing.
Outside, the wind was starting to rise, puckering the water. Kind of like goose bumps, as though the lake felt cold. Ivy took out her cell phone and called Sergeant Tocco.
“I’ve been going over Harrow’s jacket.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why is it called jacket, by the way?”
“Beats me.”
“It says he’s serving twenty-five years for second-degree murder and armed robbery.”
“Correct.”
“But it doesn’t give any details.”
“Details?”
“Exactly what happened, where, when, all that.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It might help me understand his writing a little better.”
“His writing’s hard to understand?”
“In a way, yes.”
“Like he uses big words?”
“It’s not that,” Ivy said. Out the window, Jean Savard, now wearing pajamas, walked down to the shore and tossed an empty bottle in the lake. “Did his crime have anything to do with a car accident, maybe running down a little girl?”
“Nope,” said Sergeant Tocco. “But for every one where they get caught you can bet there’s three or four others that stay unsolved.”
“What was his crime?”
“Tell you what,” said Sergeant Tocco. “I’ll dig up something, have it for you next time.”
A whole week. “I’m actually still in the area,” Ivy said.
“Uh-huh.”
Jean gazed out at the lake. Her pajama pants billowed in the wind. “If it’s not too much trouble,” Ivy said, “maybe I could swing over now.”
“Swing over?”
“And collect whatever you dig up. I can be there in half an hour.”
“No good,” said Sergeant Tocco. “I’m off in twenty minutes.”
“It would be a big help.”
“Not to me.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“My day off.”
“Maybe you could leave it on your desk.”
A pause. Then Sergeant Tocco laughed, a quick bark. “That a writer thing?” he said. “Not taking no for an answer?”
“Yes,” said Ivy, recognizing the truth of it as she spoke.
“Writers are a pain in the ass,” said Sergeant Tocco. “That’s one thing I learned from this program. Might as well come on over to the house.”
“The prison?” said Ivy, thinking big house.
“Hell no,” said Sergeant Tocco. “Think I hang out here one second longer than I have to? I mean my place.” He gave her directions. “See you in an hour.”
Ivy looked out the window. Jean was no longer there. Ivy had a crazy thought: She’s in the lake. Then she heard Jean’s voice: “Rocky!” And a big dog went bounding by, like food was waiting in the bowl.
Sergeant Tocco lived on the north edge of town, about three miles from the prison. He had a little house, newly painted white with lima-bean-green trim, an actual picket fence, also white, and a lawn completely cleared of leaves, although they were all over his neighbors’ lawns and the street. None of them had picket fences, or fences of any kind.
“Get you something to drink?” said Sergeant Tocco, out of uniform now, almost like a different person in sweatshirt and jeans.
“I’m all right.”
They sat in his front room, small, immaculate. A photo of a white-haired woman stood on the mantel, next to a basket of lacquered ears of Indian corn.
“I like your house,” Ivy said.
“Bought it last year,” said Sergeant Tocco. “Day I turned thirty.”
That shocked her: not his pride of ownership, but the fact that he looked ten years older, maybe more.
“What’s your place like?” he said.
Ivy told him.
“Own or rent?”
“Rent, of course. It’s one of the most expensive parts of Brooklyn.”
“You like living in the city?”
“Yes.”
“Writers ever live in the country?”
“Sure.”
“Never been there myself.”
“Where?”
“New York.”
“Never in your whole life?”
“Nope.”
“Where are you from?”
“Originally?” said Sergeant Tocco. “Schenectady, but I grew up in Plattsburgh.”
Plattsburgh—where Taneesha had been forced to move after she didn’t get the Sing Sing job. “What’s that like?” Ivy said.
“Right on the lake,” said Sergeant Tocco. “Went fishing practically every day when I was a kid.”
He gave her a quick sideways glance, a surprising glance that had nothing to do with inmate programs, jackets, their professional relationship. Ivy caught it and he looked away. She noticed he’d shaved off his end-of-day stubble.
“I got this off the net,” he said, and handed her a printout.
An article from the Albany Citizen, seven years old, almost to the day.
Guilty in Casino Murder
BY TONY BLASS
Evan Vance Harrow, 24, late of West Raquette, was found guilty today of second-degree murder and other charges resulting from last winter’s robbery of the Gold Dust Casino on the Mohawk reservation in neighboring Raquette. Casino security guard Jeremy Redfeather died of gunshot wounds sustained in a shoot-out during the robbery. Also killed were two of Harrow’s associates, Marvin Joseph Lusk and Simeon Carter. Ballistics tests confirmed that the bullet that killed Mr. Redfeather came from Carter’s gun.
Harrow, who wore a ski mask during the robbery and fled after the shooting, was identified by a fourth gang member, Frank Mandrell. Mandrell was not present during the robbery and received a suspended sentence on conspiracy charges in an earlier trial. Harrow’s wife, Betty Ann Price, is still being sought by police. A sum in the neighborhood of three to four hundred thousand dollars, believed to have been carried from the scene by Harrow, has not been recovered. Harrow’s lawyer, Mickey Dunn, Esq., denied that his client had any knowledge of the whereabouts of the money and maintained his innocence in a brief statement after the verdict.
Harrow will be sentenced tomorrow. Under federal guidelines, he faces a minimum sentence of twenty-five years without parole.
Ivy looked up. Sergeant Tocco was watching her, his professional gaze back in place.
“That what you needed?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Ivy said. “And it’s not a question of needing…” Her eye was drawn back to the article, so strange to her, so complicated.
“That casino’s only a couple hours from here,” Sergeant Tocco said. “I remember the case.”
“And?” Ivy said.
He shrugged. “Same old story. Some guys think they’re smart, like Hollywood types in one of those heist movies. But they always turn out dumb.” He met her gaze. “Which is what they are.”
Ivy felt Sergeant Tocco’s will, trying to get into her brain, form her opinions. “Was this wife of his”—she checked the copy—“Betty Ann Price, ever caught?”
“Not yet.”
“And what about the money?”
“Ditto.”
“So maybe someone wasn’t dumb,” Ivy said.
“A man died,” said Sergeant Tocco.
Ivy felt herself blushing, and she wasn’t a blusher. “Sorry,” she said.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Sergeant Tocco. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He spotted a fleck of something on the arm of his chair and brushed it off.
“It says here that he didn’t actually fire the gun,” Ivy said.
“Makes no difference under the law.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
“And there’s no mention of a daughter.”
“Why would there be?”
Ivy took out Harrow’s Car Wreck story, just the half he’d written down, and handed it to Sergeant Tocco. He read it.
“So? Maybe he has a daughter. Guys like that leave a trail of kids.” He looked down his nose at Harrow’s story. “You actually think this is any good?”
“I do.”
He handed it back. “You’re the writer.”
The days were getting shorter. Outside, it was night already.