The clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen said it was half past three in the morning.
I was tired and would have to wait for daylight before gath-ering any more intel. The adrenaline had worn off, and I rubbed my eyes.
I had dated a girl once whose mom had been a sleep doctor. There was a technical name, but I never learned what it was. She told me you shouldn’t look at an electronic screen within two hours of bedtime. Something about the blue-green or green-blue light stimulates the brain. It didn’t seem to be waking me up at all. I could have folded my arms on the desk and snoozed right then, but I didn’t.
Because I remembered Strawn asking where Lang had been when they were at the scene of the house fire. I suddenly worried that the killer and his comrade were perhaps picking off their opposition one at a time. Without a police force, the snowed-in town would be a sitting duck in a frozen pond.
I looked in vain for a way to return the computer to its locked screen. Finding nothing, I just hit a button on the bottom of the monitor that made the screen go dark. Then I went back to the trusty phone book. I found Sergeant Lang easily enough. Tore out the page. I figured I might as well pay him a wellness check. I also looked for Strawn’s address, just in case he was in trouble, too, but he wasn’t listed. Off the grid. My kind of guy.
Or maybe he had no landline. Just a cell.
I grabbed French’s address, too, in case I needed to make a house call there.
I didn’t care about Rock.
I looked around one more time, finding nothing of interest. The trip had been fruitful, even if I hadn’t caught the killer. I knew a little more than I did before. I had a sense of direction, a starting point in the way of some addresses of people to visit—even though Strawn had told me to stay out, I was counting on him to take all the help he could get as time went on—plus a bottle of water and a photo of a pretty girl. Not bad for a night’s work.
I nodded at the cleaning couple and tried to avoid all the wet spots on the floor. I didn’t want to ruin their work, which seemed to have been a lot more labor-intensive than mine had been.
When jumping into cold water, the best way was to plunge in, not to wade or tiptoe. So I did that same thing with the frigid night. I started jogging even before the door closed. I thought I heard my car far away. Somewhere a dog barked, and the wind howled. I picked up the pace, painfully. Each breath was laced with daggers of frozen flame. It burned to breathe, and my feet were leaden. I almost tripped once or twice, but I was worried about Mary and Agnes, so I kept a fast pace.
I didn’t know when day would break, but in winter the pale-gray light of dawn was often late and only began to show slowly, tentatively, as if of a guilty conscience.
I ran, lengthening my stride as well as I could. I wasn’t worried about sweating now. I could stand to freeze a little more.
But that didn’t keep my hands from shaking. It was colder than before. To move was all I could think to do—jogging, shadow-boxing, anything to stop my blood from turning to ice and my limbs from snapping off like those branches had at Agnes’s.
I could see pretty easily with the reflected and refracted streetlights as I moved along the roads. Then they went out, and it felt ten degrees colder, the silence more oppressive. Power outages had been called for in the news. Here they were. It was not pitch dark though. The white snow seemed to glow ghostily, like it had trapped some of the light or was taking its cue from the shrouded moon. I could see some houses in the distance that still had light, so it wasn’t a total blackout.
I’ve always had a pretty good sense of direction, and Cluff’s geography was more straightforward than in most places; it hadn’t come without practice though. I’d learned that looking back and memorizing the path behind was a good way to keep from getting lost because things always look different, depending on your direction.
I considered cutting through backyards and fields but concluded that it might take longer, what with all the fence-climbing that way would entail. Besides, some of those homeowners might have mistaken me for a wolf or a burglar or a cattle rustler or whatever and shot me with their compulsory varmint rifles.
If anyone was going to shoot at me, I wanted it to be the criminals because as long as they were shooting at me, they wouldn’t be shooting at someone else.
I breathed. Twice in, twice out. I tried to concentrate the oxygen in my mouth, tried to preheat it before it reached my lungs. It didn’t work.
I kept running. I realized, with a hint of chagrin, I was violating George Washington’s fifty-third rule, to not run in the street, shake the arms, or go up on one’s toes in a dancing manner. But I’m not a stickler for rules, no matter how much I admire Washington.
I was getting closer. I could see the church steeple. It had a little white cross at the top.
Sanctuary.
Looking down at my feet, I checked for fresh tracks in the slush. If anyone had driven here in the last little while, it would show. There was nothing new, so I slowed down a bit, stumbling. A nerve near my right shoulder blade felt pinched from the coat. The tightness across the shoulders made me hunch slightly. There was a time when all I would wear was tight shirts to accentuate my muscles. It had been vanity, plain and simple. Once I’d gotten a clue, I’d traded fashion for function. Tight clothes were useless. They limited mobility and left me with less material to fashion a tourniquet or scarf or bag or whatever else you might need in an emergency situation.
I slogged through the snow, passed the mailbox, and collapsed on the porch. I couldn’t feel the cold anymore. Or my face, fingers, or toes. On all fours I crawled to the door, steaming like a pile of compost, which is pretty much how I felt. Physically, that is. In every other sense I felt nothing but relief. There was no sign of a forced entry. Agnes and Mary were safe.
I lay on the porch with my feet across the steps, my chest heaving. I rolled slowly over, reaching a hand up to the door, pulling myself up by the knob. It was still unlocked from my hurried departure. Inside, the house was just like I had left it, except the embers in the fireplace had gone out.
My fingers were cold and didn’t seem to want to work right. With extra effort I managed to pry my boots off. I didn’t think I was anywhere near hypothermic, but I was certainly colder than I wanted to be. I was also more tired than I wanted to be. And hungrier.
However, some things are more important. Like ladies’ comfort. So I rekindled the fire, breaking a couple of matches in my fingers, clumsy with cold, before getting it going. I still had no idea what time it was; Agnes’s stove did not have a digital component. All I knew was that it was still plenty dark.
Then it was all about not tripping down the stairs. I gripped the handrail so tightly I felt the wall mounts give a little. It wasn’t so much that I was worried about hurting myself as I was about waking Mary, not that she needed beauty sleep. She was already beautiful. But sad news and stretched emotions are taxing.
In the dark I made out her shape curled back on the couch. Her cell phone was blinking like she had a message.
I padded quietly into the bathroom, ran my hands under the faucet, and splashed my face. My clothes were once again dirty from rolling around on the road and sweaty from running. So, for the second time in only a handful of hours, I set them to wash. The borrowed coat’s tag said, Dry-clean only, but I figured that was just a suggestion. Some instructions I follow, some I don’t.
I set my pocket junk on the dryer. Everything was intact. I tossed the paper with French’s password on it. I didn’t want to get all weighed down with luggage.
Then I measured out the detergent and set the knobs the same way as before. The machine started, with all the same sounds, the slow rumble growing steadily into a swishing cadence.
I certainly needed to sleep. I felt like I was a fraying bow being jerked across new strings on a violin. My head ached, not from the car-collision injuries but from a lack of sleep and sus-
tenance.
But I had to shower first. Cleanliness was important, after all, albeit not most.
I started the shower off cool. You never want to get into a hot shower or run your hands under hot water when you’re
numb. I held my mouth open under the cascade and drank. The water had a metallic hint, nothing I was worried about. Every single tap in the United States is better than what you’ll find in Peru.
As feeling flooded back to me, I turned the water steadily warmer until steam filled the bathroom. I took the liberty of using some cleaning agents from Mary’s ample supply, notwithstanding their outlandish claims to replenish and beautify. I scrubbed, lathered, and rinsed.
I didn’t repeat. Some instructions I choose to ignore.
Afterward I switched my clothes to the dryer and my pocket supplies to the top of the washer, to keep them from rattling. The dryer ran with a bit of racket and a lot of low, rolling hums. I hoped it would just contribute to the ambient white noise and wouldn’t wake Mary or Agnes. While I waited I brushed my
teeth.
There wasn’t much good I could do without at least a couple of hours of shut-eye. Once my clothes were warm and dry, I put them back on, except the jacket. Leaving my flannel button-up untucked, I lay down right on the floor by the couch. I was a missionary. I can sleep anywhere. I had slept in hammocks, on concrete, and in sand-flea-infested quarters in Peru, so the floor was no problem. Positioning my arms under my head, I inhaled and exhaled and was out in seconds.
It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, or years later when I awoke. It wasn’t to an alarm clock. That is a habitual pitfall I try to avoid—the ritual of an optimistic setting of the time to awake and then the inevitable bargaining against myself with a tap of the snooze button.
I believe that to awake is to arise—to be instantly alert and ready for action, not to do the groggy, stumbling, half-shut eyes routine. It was more like the flipping of a switch than the rising of the sun. On that particular day I woke up to the smells and sounds of breakfast.
Perfect.
Nothing was better than breakfast. It almost made me forget the danger and bad luck and trouble looming overhead. Bacon crackled and popped in a skillet, and I smelled coffee burbling in a percolator. Mary had evidently covered me in a blanket sometime during the morning. Standing up to tuck in my shirt, I kept smelling and listening and savoring. A whisk was skimming the sides of a glass bowl, maybe making batter for pancakes. I hoped.
Mary and Agnes walked back and forth, talking. I heard their footsteps overhead and their muffled voices.
I brushed my teeth again, without toothpaste, since I planned on eating in the next few minutes. Wetting my fingers under the faucet, I combed my hair as well as I could. Which wasn’t very.
That’s as good as it’s going to get.
Hustling upstairs, I found the kitchen a scene of breakfast nirvana. You would never have known Agnes was in the middle of heartache over a wayward youth coupled with the memories of a departed sister. She was in her element, breaking eggs one-handed over a skillet, flipping bacon and pancakes. Mary set the table deftly. I’m not great at math, but I can count, and there were five places.
We were expecting company.
I offered to help, more than once, but was repeatedly brushed off by flour-dusted hands.
I wanted to ask who else was coming but hesitated for fear of interrupting artists at their work.
“Thank you for letting me sleep in,” I said to Mary as she finished filling glasses with water.
“What were you doing on the floor?”
“Sleeping,” I said.
She half-smiled, half-frowned. The result was pretty spectacular. She had no makeup on, which complimented her natural beauty. Her long red hair had been brushed into two long curtains down either side of her face, almost reaching her middle. “No, I mean, why were you sleeping on the floor?”
“I went out and didn’t want to wake you when I came back.”
“I know you went out; I woke up in the middle of the night. Where did you go?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I said, looking sideways at Agnes, who was plating pancakes and sticking them in the oven to keep
them warm.
“Tell me now, Sawyer. I was worried,” she said, evenly but with emphasis.
Some instructions I choose to ignore.
“Who’s coming to breakfast? I mean, I know I can eat a lot, but this would be a little too much.”
It was not a very tactful evasion, but she didn’t argue.
“A lonely neighbor and the cook from the restaurant—he can’t work whenever we close, so Agnes has him over as a kind of reimbursement for lost wages.”
I nodded and said nothing.
I like people. A lot. I can usually find admirable or redeeming qualities in most everyone I meet. Rock excluded. But, given the choice, I’ll take my own company. I was disinclined to discuss contemporary events or whatever else breakfast clubs talked about. Especially with the expediency of the work ahead of me. They had asked for my help, and I meant to give it.
Mary was watching me closely, waiting for me to spill the beans about where I’d been, but I said nothing. For now. Timeliness and truthfulness need to coincide in some cases. And I didn’t know how Mary would react to news of my subterfuge until I had something to show for it.
Contrary to popular belief, secrets are no fun to keep. I had to get out of there. As hungry as I was for food, I hungered for justice just as much.
Matthew 5:6 came to mind.
“I need to borrow your car,” I said to Mary.
“What about breakfast?” She spoke slowly, her eyes narrowed in concern.
“Save me some, please.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Fight some crime.”
“That’s not your job or your place.”
I didn’t have time to debate, but I wanted her to understand, if only a little, how I felt.
“Mary, think of every bad thing that has ever happened—
every theft, rape, kidnapping, or murder you’ve ever seen on the news or read about in the paper. Every single one of those horrors could have been prevented if someone had done something differently. You’ve heard the saying what goes around comes around. Well, it’s coming around now. The buck stops here. I’m not passing anything else down the row. If I can do something, I should do something. So, are you going to help me or not?”
She didn’t look happy about it, but she fished the keys out of the pocket of her coat that was hanging in the entry. “Just be careful.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I mean with my Jeep; I practically had to sell my soul for that thing.”
My track record was not unimpeachable in terms of vehicular care, but I smiled and nodded convincingly, giving her a thumbs-up.
“My apologies to Agnes.”
I ran downstairs, grabbed the borrowed coat out of the dryer, and pulled it on. I figured I would need it.
I waited until I got into the Jeep before lacing up my boots.
I did all the things you do when you get into the driver’s seat of an unfamiliar car: buzzed back the seat, adjusted the mirrors, and inventoried the dials and knobs. The Jeep was a pretty neat vehicle. I could see how it must have cost a fair bit. I hoped I wouldn’t ruin it for Mary, but some things are just beyond your control.
I had to wait a bit for the windshield to fully defrost even after brushing and scraping off snow and ice with a handy tool I found under the backseat.
I drove with a degree of difficulty across the snow-covered road. The snow must have stopped sometime during the night. The sky was still rock solid though. There was no movement, no break in the clouds—just an endless expanse of slate. An ocean of concrete.
I imagined airplanes above the cloud layer, like a vision in a dream, basking in the sun, oblivious to the plight of the earth and its snowbound creatures below.
I like flying. A lot. It never gets old. I took a plane dozens of times in Peru. It was the only way to get out of the rainforest besides the slow crawl of riverboats. It’s one of those miraculous things that is scientifically explainable but never really believable, a phenomenon almost as incredible as moms lifting cars off their kids or the act of falling in love.
My first stop was the police station, a legitimate visit this time, during business hours. I needed to see if all the cops were accounted for and if they had gotten any breaks in the case.
I took the turns widely and slowly, unsure of the Jeep’s handling. I had driven a couple different vehicles in the last few days, but I liked none so much as the Buick.
Parking in front of the station, I left the engine running and made sure the doors were unlocked. I didn’t want to look the fool by locking myself out.
It was busier inside than I had previously seen it. An elderly couple bundled in scarves and woolen mittens were adjusting and updating notices on the community events board, something about a swap meet and a pageant.
I thought I might have seen them in the restaurant yesterday morning.
No one was at the front desk. No Lang.
The carpets were clean and dark with residual dampness. The fire had not been lit in the pit. Feeling a sense of urgency and a little entitlement given my involvement, I pushed through the door that led to the inner offices.
Rock and French were at their desks.
They had been talking with their feet up but stopped and stood as I entered.
“At ease, guys. No need to stand on my account,” I said.
“What do you want?” Rock asked in a way that seemed to suggest he wouldn’t volunteer to help.
For a moment I said nothing, debating whether or not to give him a hard time. Mary’s voice came to mind though: You shouldn’t have picked on them.
“Good morning to you too. I need to talk to Chief Strawn,”
I said.
Like an actor cued onstage, Strawn appeared. “Mr. Sawyer, how can I help you?”
He looked worn, tired. His collar was open, and his sleeves were rolled up. He must have been working hard, although Rock and French seemed unruffled and as lazy as ever.
“I saw the car-thief last night.”
He perked up. “Where?”
“Outside Agnes Kirk’s house.”
“You recovered your vehicle, didn’t you?” He seemed genuinely interested.
I looked at Rock, pointedly. “Yes, but when I left to look for Amy with Mary, it was stolen again, right from the restaurant’s parking lot.”
Rock and French looked confused, which suited them, in my opinion.
“That’s two times too many,” Strawn said. “I need you to keep your head down and stay clear of this investigation. I seem to recall telling you that before.”
I try to err on the side of caution, and being too forthcoming or gung ho can be a very bad idea. As of yet no one had noticed Rock’s missing photograph, to my knowledge. Despite my earlier enthusiasm to help out local law enforcement, I was hesitant to shave any more ice off the already-thin layer on which I
walked.
“Tell me what happened, then,” Strawn said.
So I told him what happened, how I had heard my car and had chased whoever the thieves were from the house but lost them at the end of the road. As I related the encounter, the three cops listened. Strawn looked thoughtful and Rock and French listless.
Strawn continued. “This is the last time I am going to say this: I don’t want anything else from you. We’ve already got two dead bodies.”
“Two?” I asked.
He paused, as if he had said too much.
“In addition to the DOA you discovered, we found more remains last night when you saw us at the house. The doctor is examining them now.”
He fished in his breast pocket and pulled out a card. “If you see the thief again, call me and don’t do anything else, you understand? I’ll lock you up if I have to. You can’t keep getting lucky against whoever is out there.”
“I don’t have a cell phone,” I said.
“You could use Mary’s.”
I nodded. “I’ll do that.”
“Well, we’ll get back to work. Thank you for informing us, Mr. Sawyer. We will let you know as soon as we have anything.” He lifted his eyes to the door leading to the entrance.
My cue to leave.
Pushing open the door, I saw again the reverse side of Sergeant Lang’s desk. There was nothing much of interest besides the hunting photograph. I looked at it again, at the smiling sergeant and his friend, at the dead deer. I hoped Lang hadn’t met a similar fate.
People say when you’re tired or hungry you’re also more creative. Maybe in my case it boosted my recall as well, because there was something familiar in Lang’s friend’s smiling face. Except when I had seen Lang’s friend before, he hadn’t been smiling. He had been bruised and bloodied and probably mildly concussed. From our car crash.
He was the driver.
He was the killer.
My blood ran cold, and it had very little to do with the weather. It is a strange thing to have what you consider to be a big question finally answered only to realize that it was just the dagger-tip of a very big iceberg.
I ran through a mental checklist of things I knew, which still wasn’t much, and a list of things I didn’t know, which was a lot. But I could guess. I was not an expert on divisional rankings, but I figured a police sergeant was fairly senior, like middle-management in a company. So it was possible, even probable, that Lang had been in the department for a long time. He looked to be close to Strawn’s age—same generation, anyway.
Maybe Lang’s buddy had killed Arlene all those years ago. Maybe he was a psychopath. He had to be, to drive down a highway with a dying man riding shotgun. He had certainly covered their tracks well after killing Arlene, if it had been him, way back when.
But what if Lang was part of it? The pair looked pretty chummy. What if all the police were involved? French’s password was persuasive but inconclusive. I couldn’t risk revealing this new information, and hadn’t Strawn forbidden me from relaying anything else, first after my test drive and then again at Amy’s house?
My stomach was growling audibly, and I wanted to pick over the leftovers at Agnes’s, but I had more stops to make.