I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious. Not too long, I figured, since I hadn’t frozen to death. My sight was blurry, like opening your eyes under water or squinting really hard. Snow was still falling, and I could see blinking lights. They flashed blue and white and red. Like those gaudy Christmas lights some people leave up half the year.
I started the slow, painful process of sitting up—it felt like surfacing from a SCUBA dive—and gingerly felt my head. There was a bump on the back and a cut above my left eye.
A cop was standing on the road next to an SUV with flashing lights. He was looking at me and talking into his radio.
Now I felt the cold. Looking down, I saw the impression I had left in the snow, filling up quickly with fresh powder. The wrecked car had cooled. It wasn’t making noises anymore.
I half-crawled, half-climbed up the embankment. Road flares spiked into the asphalt glowed with a spectral light, marking the crash site.
The cop stepped back, dropping a mittened hand to his gun.
“Don’t move,” he yelled. I stopped, and we sized each
other up.
He was like a fully dressed snowman, made up of three distinct round portions. His chunky legs ballooned in heavy pants and boots. His sizable stomach was barely contained in a shiny coat, and above it all, instead of a corncob pipe and carrot nose, a youthful face was crammed into a furry hat.
“Take it easy,” I said.
“Is that your car?”
I looked back at the crunched car in the ditch. The trunk had popped open, evidently a delayed reaction to the crash—probably some sort of safety feature, like automatically unlocking the doors.
“No, that’s my car.” I turned back, pointing behind the cop.
To an empty spot of highway.
Not good.
The cop looked around. “Where?”
“It’s gone; the other guy must have taken it,” I said. “Can you get an ambulance here or something? We’ve got somebody dead down there.”
His face clouded with confusion like I was speaking gibberish. Maybe my head wound had rendered me incapable of speaking anything but Spanish and I couldn’t tell the difference. I had heard of returned missionaries involuntarily reverting to their mission language mid-conversation.
“What guy? Who’s dead? You drunk?”
At least he had understood my words, even if he didn’t know what I meant.
I looked back and saw what he was seeing. Snow. The body was invisible now. Maybe I had been out longer than I had thought. Or maybe there was just a lot more snow.
“Where’s the body?” the officer asked.
“He’s in the snow.” I pointed down the embankment. The snow seemed to fall faster.
He stood there for a minute, saying nothing. I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He was probably trying to decide what to do—scramble in the snow or get back into his nice
warm rig.
I thought about producing my passport as ID—maybe if I showed him I had nothing to hide he would believe my story. But I didn’t want to make any sudden movements, didn’t want to reach for my pockets—not with the abominable snowman all anxious and unpredictable.
Eventually he came to a conclusion. And it was the wrong one.
He did some complicated motion with his right-hand mitten, pulling a Velcro strap and turning it into a fingerless glove. He then managed to produce his pistol, spread his feet wide, and extended his arms straight out. It took him so long I could have closed the distance and knocked him out just like had been done to me. The muzzle of the gun twitched; he was shaking hard. I could hear the slide rattling against the barrel. It could have been nerves. Could have been the cold. But I did nothing. Just waited to see what he would do next.
“Don’t move. Put your hands up,” he said, perhaps not realizing that those were, in fact, conflicting orders.
“What?”
“Freeze.”
“I’m about to; aren’t you?”
The cop looked perplexed. My wit was lost on him. But it tends to be on most people, so I couldn’t blame him.
I held my arms out low, showing I was unarmed. “I’m not the bad guy,” I said.
The cop reached down with one hand to his belt, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
“You’re under arrest.”
I almost didn’t argue. The chance of getting inside a heated car under any circumstances seemed better than being turned into the world’s largest popsicle.
But I am contrary by nature. And I was innocent.
“For what?”
“Put your hands behind your back.”
I didn’t want to do that. Tell me to do something and I’m inclined to do the opposite. Usually. Especially when it comes to authoritarians. I am not anti-authority, not really. I just don’t like the misapplication of authority. The abuse of it. I had spent two years following stringent yet righteous rules. I could tell the difference.
“There’s a dead guy down there.”
No reaction.
I tried again. “Someone hit me over the head and stole
my car.”
Again, no reaction. I was getting nowhere with this guy.
He moved forward, jangling the cuffs out in front of him, like a beggar and his cup.
It was too cold to stand there protesting. At least I wasn’t ordered to lie on the frozen asphalt. I turned around with my hands interlocked behind me.
The cop didn’t read me my rights. Just clicked the cuffs on and marched me to the back seat of his SUV. The red and blue lights strobed, turning the flakes into miniature fireworks. The decal on the side read Cluff Police Department. On the hood there was an escutcheon with the words Protect and Serve, which the cop was doing halfway. He was protecting me from the frostbite, but I didn’t foresee any good customer service coming from him anytime soon. Inside, the heater was running at least. I felt myself begin to thaw, painfully. My numbed face and fingers prickled and tingled back to life. My head hurt, but not too badly. It wasn’t the worst headache I’d ever had.
The cop got in, turned down his belt radio, and took the mic from a cradle on the dash.
“French, here. I’ve got one in custody.”
He looked at me in the rearview mirror, raising his eyebrows like he expected me to protest.
I said nothing.
He turned sideways in his seat to face me. He was one of those guys who didn’t look bad being fat. Like that was his normal, intended shape.
“You drunk or something?” the cop asked again, not accusingly, just like he was hoping for a more harmonious outcome. If I was impaired, then there might have been no basis for my story, which would spell a lot less paperwork and worry for him.
I said nothing. I didn’t want to incriminate myself. Things could be misheard or misconstrued.
He took off his mittens, faced forward again, and started driving.
Relegated to passenger, or rather prisoner, I could take my eyes off the road. Out of the windows I had a pretty good view of the area. Not that there was much to see. Just snow.
Of course, I hadn’t seen snow for two years.
The cop kept looking in the rearview mirror like he wanted to talk or like he was daring me to pose more questions.
I didn’t speak. I just sat back and waited. I was ready to explain what had happened, but not to the abominable snowman. I felt like an irate customer. I want to speak to a manager. I figured I would soon meet someone in charge.
I came to the easy conclusion that the other driver had been the one who’d hit me and stolen my car. I wanted the cops to start looking soon. Of course, my car was pretty distinguishable, so the killer wouldn’t get far. I hoped.
We drove along the darkening highway and turned toward the town. I probably would have missed the turnoff, as inconspicuous
as it was. The road took a steep downward grade, and when I glanced out the windshield, it looked as if we were off-roading. There was no clear indication of the road. The hills and trees rose on either side of us like we were on a slow-motion slalom. After a while the road leveled out, and I caught a glimpse of an icy river in the middle distance. The hills and trees gave way just enough so I could see the sepia-toned street lights burning against the snowy night.
I was hoping I would get to see most of the small town on our drive to the police station. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances surrounding my visit, I was looking forward to being somewhere I’d never been. Except I had never been to jail before, and I wasn’t over the moon about that.
I had a cousin who was a travel agent. Perhaps I should have spoken to her before planning this trip.
I caught a sideways glimpse of the welcome sign. Snow had drifted up against it and piled high on top of it, but I could see the number of residents was nine hundred and fifty-eight. And, it added in curly script, three old grouches.
Which I appreciated. Honesty is the best policy. Usually.
Most towns make the first few blocks the best—a warm welcome—with the nicest stores, the best restaurants, and the prettiest parks. Not exactly tourist traps but definitely calculated to attract. I expected a small historic center, a roadhouse-style restaurant, and maybe a mom-and-pop general store.
But I didn’t get to see any of that. The police station came first. Maybe it was meant to serve as a sign of safety to visitors, a reassurance.
Or a warning, to frighten off undesirables.
I didn’t know. It neither reassured nor dismayed me.
The station was big. Bigger than it needed to be, considering the population. For a town with nine hundred and sixty-one folks in it, I would imagine one middling sheriff with a couple of volunteer deputies could keep all the peace there was to be had.
But what did I know? The citizens had obviously signed off on the department budget. It was their tax dollars at work.
Then I saw it was not just for police use. It was like an entire civic center, with everything from a police department to a post office. It had everything people needed and plenty they didn’t.
We drove under a giant archway made up entirely of bleached-white antlers.
I’d never been hunting. Didn’t interest me. There was just something unappealing about the whole pageantry of the thing—wearing camouflage, making fake mating calls, shooting things.
Not for me.
You kill a lion with your bare hands? Good for you.
Blow the head off a snake before it strikes? Cool.
But shoot an unsuspecting herbivore with a high-powered rifle from a comfortable distance? I’m not impressed. Of course, I’m no conservationist. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I’m not an animal rights activist or a vegetarian. I like meat as much as the next guy. So I can understand and respect subsistence hunting.
I would just rather hunt something that could fight back, make it a fair fight.
I thought the officer would bring me to the rear of the building to the jail, where I would be booked and fingerprinted. Processed, they called it, like it was the same as being put into one of those big blenders used for making smoothies and salsa and chutney. Maybe here they hadn’t upgraded to the digital machines and they would cover my hands in ink. Maybe I would have to hold up one of those numbered signs and get my picture taken.
Instead the cop pulled to a stop in front of the building, leaving the engine running. He heaved his bulk out and trekked around to my door. Opening it, he stepped back. With some difficulty I scooted along the seat and hooked my feet on the bottom lip of the door frame to pull myself out of the vehicle. He marched me up the steps, both of us trying not to slip, both of us relying on the other for balance. He needed to keep me up because I had my hands behind my back, and I needed to keep him standing so he didn’t fall on me.
He had been walking behind me, holding my elbow, but as we came to the door, he turned me around so I was facing back the way we had come. I took a good look just in case this was going to be all I got to see of Cluff. He opened the door with one hand and pulled me through with the other.
We stepped into a spacious lobby with posts and beams and exposed rafters and hard, dark rosewood everywhere; community advisory boards and notices and wanted posters were surrounded with more antlers and animal pelts. An actual fire burned in a circular pit in the center of the wide room. I felt as though I were in an expensive hotel with a rustic western theme. With any luck, the police station would be complete with a five-star restaurant. I was hungry.
The front desk was empty. It was well after business hours.
An inconspicuous door opened up behind the counter, and a very conspicuous man came through. He stepped out from around the desk, running a hand through sandy hair, an impressive moustache bristling. He looked like he came straight out of a John Wayne movie.
“Chief,” French said, letting go of my arm and stepping back like he didn’t want to be in the way of whatever was in store
for me.
“Take those cuffs off him, French.”
The chief spoke evenly—no barking orders. He was just a guy who said things, and then they happened.
Officer French paused, mumbled something—perhaps an apology to me or the chief—and dug in his pocket for the keys.
He freed me without another word. The chief beckoned French with one hand and motioned for me to stay put with the other. The two exchanged a quick whispered conversation. I didn’t hear what was said. French then turned to walk back out into the snow, presumably to park his still-running vehicle. Or go back on patrol. It looked too dark and snowy out to send a tow truck back to recover the wreck.
The patch above the chief’s pocket read, W. Strawn. He was a big man and light on his feet. Unassuming but imposing. He had command presence. I almost saluted. He stuck out a big, calloused hand.
I shook it once.
“Bill Strawn.” His voice was rumbly and deep but not unfriendly. “I’m sorry about that. French is new, and you can’t be too careful in our line of work.”
“Frank Sawyer,” I said. “It’s no problem.”
We stood there in a semi-awkward silence—the kind that could permeate any unusual interaction between two strangers. I was happy to just be in the warm, aesthetically pleasing ambience.
Strawn looked slightly perturbed, like he had a whole laundry lists of problems and wasn’t quite sure where I fit on it.
“Can I offer you some coffee?” He asked.
“Got hot chocolate?”
“Sure. Follow me.”
I followed Strawn back around the desk and through the door into the squad room. There was a pair of percolators on a counter behind the desks. A stainless-steel sink had some leftover dishes and mugs stacked in it, like a miniature cutout of a kitchen. Strawn pulled a Styrofoam cup from a stack and handed it to me. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small tin of cocoa powder. It was not a brand name I recognized, but I was prepared to like it.
As I made my cup of cocoa, Strawn stood by, his big hands on his narrow hips.
“I’m afraid we do have some questions for you.”
I blew steam from the piping brew. “I sure hope so.”
Strawn motioned me forward. “Come with me to my office.”
I was a little surprised but not at all displeased with his hospitality as opposed to the low-grade hostility I’d experienced from French. I had anticipated being jerked around before I could get my side of the story out. I’d imagined having to fill out witness statements, signing and dating here and there and having photocopies made of my government-issued identification. All I had was my passport. My driver’s license had long since expired. But Strawn seemed to take it for granted that I was the victim, and protocol appeared to be flexible.
I followed him through the squad room, past the hardwood desks. The chairs were ergonomic masterpieces, replete with knobs and mesh and adjustable back supports. The office felt like a lounge in an exclusive club. The furniture looked like the kind that would be found in the finest of ivy-league libraries, not the utilitarian composite material junk you see in regular offices. Clearly the budget had line items for more than just personnel.
I had never wanted an office job, but if I had to have one, I could see myself enjoying a place like this.
No one else was in the building as far as I could tell. Everyone was likely either off duty or on patrol. Probably the former, I figured.
Freezing-cold weather was usually an excellent crime deterrent—nothing to see on a night like this. Besides my crash and a murder.
I waited for Strawn to sit down behind his desk before sitting myself.
Strawn steepled his fingers on the desk.
“Tell me the story, Mr. Sawyer.”
So I explained about my drive and the snow and the cold. I described the deserted highway and my unhurried pace across his jurisdiction. I didn’t mention my drowsiness. I didn’t want to be arrested all over again for distracted driving, especially without a license. Honesty is the best policy. Usually. Withholding certain elements of information is not the same thing as lying. It’s a matter of disclosure.
I told him about the sudden appearance of the speeding car. The accident. I mean collision. I told him how I had helped the dazed driver into my car and then had gone looking for a way to call for help. If he was surprised I didn’t own a phone, he didn’t show it. I told him about the bloodstains, the discovery of the agent’s body, and the sneak attack on me
Strawn listened, not asking any questions, not taking notes, only nodding occasionally.
But I had a few questions of my own. “How did you
find me?”
Strawn shrugged. “We received a call from a guy. He said he was a long-haul trucker and he thought he saw something out of place. He gave us the mile marker and nothing more.”
“Why did you let me go?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You’re clearly not drunk. You’ve committed no crime, not in my jurisdiction anyway.”
“There’s a body out there, a federal agent’s to be precise,” I said. “French refused to investigate it.”
Strawn sighed. “You needn’t spell out the gravity of the situation to me, son. I know how serious this is. I must say you’re handling it well. Most people are catatonic after seeing something like that. Believe me, we are going to use all the technical ability and resources at our disposal. You’ll have to excuse Officer French; he just got through field training. If you want to make a formal complaint, I’ll give you the form.”
“No. I’m not bitter. I don’t really blame him, honestly. But there is a murderer on the loose with my car, and I don’t see a lot of hurry to catch him.”
He pointed to my head. “You want some ice on that?”
I shook my head, only slightly, because the motion brought echoes of dull pain. “It’s plenty cold outside already. And it’s not the worst I’ve ever had. I’ll be fine.”
Strawn nodded. “Well, I’d say you’re lucky to be alive either way.”
He was right. I was lucky. But not for having survived a little whack on the noggin. I had been in and out of plenty of
scrapes and close calls, and this figured close to the least of them.
“What’s the plan for catching him?” I asked.
He ignored my question. “What do you do for work, son?”
“At the moment, nothing. I was a missionary for the last couple of years, in Peru.”
“And now you’re not?” he asked.
“Correct,” I said.
“You lose your faith?”
“No, sir, it’s only a two-year commitment.”
“Mormon?” he asked.
“Through and through.”
“Where is it you’re headed?” Strawn asked.
This is where I had not wanted the conversation to go. Because I didn’t have a good answer.
I shrugged. “Nowhere in particular. Like I said, I just came back from Peru. I hadn’t driven for two years, and I don’t have any family close by, so I figured I would do a little exploring.”
“Where are you from?”
“The Seattle area,” I said.
The hint of a shadow passed over his eyes, like maybe he didn’t like the Seahawks at all. Understandable. I can’t stand them either. But as far as I knew, Montana didn’t even have a National Football League team. Or maybe, like a lot of landlocked
folks, he had a dim view of coasters. Which I could also understand. Or maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was something else entirely.
“I’m not involved in any of this though,” I said.
“Why would you feel the need to say something like that?” he asked.
“Because it’s all just so coincidental, isn’t it? I don’t know about you, but I don’t like coincidences. I mean, what are the odds you would have two out-of-towners—the FBI guy and me—show up at once? I mean, no offense, but this place isn’t exactly Jackson Hole.”
“I don’t see any semblance of a coincidence. You weren’t even headed for Cluff itself, and the car you crashed with was going the other way. Who’s to say your attacker wasn’t a visitor as well?”
He had a point. Maybe the bad guy hadn’t even come from Cluff. Maybe he hadn’t even driven back this way once he had stolen my car.
Strawn stood up slowly. Interview over.
“Mr. Sawyer, you’re not a suspect. Relax. Enjoy your stay in our small town. We’ll find the guy; he won’t get far, whichever way he went.”
I stood up, too, and gulped the last of the chocolate. I wasn’t going to stay here and argue, running the risk of wearing out my welcome and having him change his mind.
“You got a hotel here? Maybe a good diner?”
“Motel, actually. Just a couple blocks from Main Street. Let me show you.”
He showed me a map tacked to the wall behind my seat. The town was weird, zoned out in a circular fashion. The station was at the center, and from there twelve roads branched out like numbers on a clock or spokes on a wheel. The way French had brought me in was the twelve o’clock spoke. None of the streets were exactly straight—they meandered and wound a bit—but the four biggest were exactly oriented north, east, south, and west. Or the twelve, three, six, and nine o’clock positions.
Maybe the city planner had been Parisian or a clockmaker or a wheelwright. But whatever; it was not as good as Utah’s grid system, but it made some kind of sense. Apart from the spokes were three inner rings, widening out like ripples in a well. Strawn showed me where we were and that the motel was about the equivalent of six blocks along the eleven o’clock spoke, right about halfway up the road’s length.
He continued. “And as far as food goes, you can’t do better than the Oak Table Café. Besides, it’s the only show in town. Open late. It’s west of here.” He pointed a few blocks down, the nine o’clock spoke. “I can call French back to drive you.”
“I’ll walk, work up an appetite.” I was already plenty hungry; I just didn’t want to see French again so soon.
“Suit yourself. You know the way out?”
“Yes, sir. Thanks again.”
I didn’t really know why I was thanking him. Maybe for the cocoa. Or for not arresting me. At any rate, it seemed like a nice thing to say. Nice but inaccurate. Like a lot of the things people say. I had not thanked him at all before.
Nice but inaccurate. That could have easily been my high-school yearbook caption.
I went back out into the main lobby. It didn’t strike me like a resort anymore. More like a lodge on a lake. First impressions can be lasting, but they are often wrong. The fire, burning low, emanated a soft, inviting kind of heat. Homey, like a warm hearth where a big dog might lie next to a pair of work boots. I would have liked to linger a bit, but I had been excused, and sustenance is more important than aesthetics every time.
I saw the other side of the front desk, where a sergeant probably sat during regular hours, with papers and other office supplies. There was a glossy photograph of a guy with a buddy, both dressed in white snow camouflage. From a hunting trip, evidently. One of them had shot a deer. They were smiling. The deer wasn’t. An acetate name plate on the desk read, Sgt. Lang.
I wondered where he fell on the scale of competency—somewhere between greenhorn French and veteran Strawn? A good cop, I expected. Most of them are.