The human nervous system reacts in the same primal way to grief as it does to any physical threat or danger: the adrenal glands kick in, heightening your senses, putting them – and you – on high alert. The first thing Darby noticed was the cold. She had grown up in New England, where winters were harsh and grim, so she was used to snow and biting subzero temperatures but this coldness felt different. It pressed at her exposed skin like needles and seemed to be seeping past her jeans and the thick black leather of her jacket – the kind of cold that killed quickly if you weren’t careful.
The second thing she was aware of was something she couldn’t see but could definitely hear: a steady and persistent roar of running water. Not quite the thundering or deafening drum of a waterfall but a sound close to it, and it was growing louder with each step. It didn’t belong out here in the woods, where everything was pristine white, the branches sagging with fresh snow.
When she stepped on to the main road, which had been badly ploughed, the pavement covered in ice, the rushing sound of water vanished, replaced by the rumbling chug of a diesel engine coming to life further up the road – the crane Noel had told her about back at the station. The crane was a truck-mounted model designed for highway travel, so it could be easily transported. Equipped with outriggers, it sat on a level section of road. Three portable floodlights, the kind used in road construction, had been set up, and she could see everything clearly now: the sheriff’s trucks and the flatbed used to transport the crane; the wind-burned faces of the six men huddled near the guardrail, plumes of breath exploding around their faces and scattering in the wind. They all wore identical clothing: forest-green trousers, black winter boots and thick black parkas. Some wore earmuffs. Five wore black baseball caps with the words SHERIFF DEPT. embossed in white on the brim. The sixth, the shortest of the group, wore a Stetson.
Probably the sheriff, Darby thought, switching her attention to the portable floodlight on the edge of a precipitously steep decline. As she drew closer, she saw, in the bright LEDs, the wide and jagged path carved through the snow by the tumbling Explorer. On its way down, Coop’s rental had taken out some skinny trees and saplings before crash-landing in the river, where it now rested, overturned and partially submerged. The running water she had heard earlier now had an explanation: this section of the river contained rapids. She could see the water pounding against the SUV.
The crane’s hydraulics engaged, chugging and whining and straining as it began slowly to lift the SUV from the river. The nearby officers motioned to Darby to back away from the guardrail. She did and saw Noel hovering by her side.
The Explorer looked like a wrecking ball had attacked it: the roof was crushed, the front end slammed into an accordion of twisted steel. Water rushed out of the missing windows as the crane lifted it into the air, and Darby felt her stomach lift along with it. From the corner of her eye she could see Bradley having a private conversation with Stetson Man, who kept flicking glances her way.
The woods and the roaring water, the crane and the male faces – everything took on a surreal, dreamy quality. A sudden gust of wind scattered the crane’s diesel fumes, the pungent, sickening odour filling her nostrils and lungs and making her feel even more lightheaded and nauseous than she already was.
Now the SUV hovered over the rapids, spinning lazily from a grappling hook. In the play of light she could make out the shape of a pale and bloated body pinned behind the crumpled steering column.
Don’t look away. It was her father’s voice – calm but firm. If you look away, if you so much as shed a single tear or if they hear your voice break, they’ll avoid you.
And, in one way or another, they were all watching her to see how she was going to react. She wasn’t imagining it; almost every face here was either aimed directly at her or stealing glances at her. Every man here was taking her measure. Noel was still hovering next to her, and the two men standing nearby had moved in a bit closer, assuming she was going to faint or throw up or pass out or whatever. As frightened and sick as she felt, she wouldn’t let them see her break down. She would hold it together for Coop. After everything he’d done for her, she owed him at least that much.
The crane’s boom swung around and then moved the SUV toward the road, river water splashing against the pavement. Now it lowered the dripping wreckage, stopping when the SUV hovered less than a foot from the ground. The deputies approached, their gloved hands gripping the mangled heap, helping to guide the still-inflated tyres on to the road so the vehicle could be examined and, afterwards, loaded on to a flatbed tow-truck that was parked behind the crane, its red-and-orange emergency light spinning lazily, like a heartbeat at rest.
The crane’s engine shut off. Darby could still feel its hum throbbing in her ears. Get ready, it’s time to get ready. As a couple of men carried over one of the portable floodlights, she took out the pair of blue nitrile gloves she always kept tucked inside her jacket pocket.
Bradley hung back as Stetson Man made his approach. Another man materialized out of the dark, holding a camera, and began to take pictures of the vehicle from different angles. Several beams of light played over the SUV, the men gathering around it, searching. Darby couldn’t see Coop, not from this angle – the Explorer’s twisted backend faced her – but in the halos of light she could make out the wet silhouette pinned in the driver’s seat. One of the officers made a sign of the cross.
Stetson Man moved to the SUV, said something quickly to one of his officers, then broke away. Now he was coming toward her. The officer he had just spoken to said something to the group of men, and, as they moved away from the Explorer, she saw several glance at her. They had been told who Coop was and who she was, and they were giving her some space so she could view the body. So she could say goodbye.
Her heart seized as Noel turned his back to the group and, his hands tucked in his overcoat pockets, leaned slightly forward and spoke close to her ear. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said. ‘You want, you can give me a list of Cooper’s distinguishing characteristics and I can go and look, make the ID.’
Darby didn’t want to look, had to look – had to see for herself. She had to know, didn’t want to know.
‘Just remember,’ he said. ‘Whatever you need, I’m here for you.’
Stetson Man was short – stood barely five-seven in his thick-soled boots – and his face was full of sympathy. ‘Sheriff Kevin Powers,’ he said to Noel. ‘We spoke on the phone.’ A quick handshake and then he turned to Darby. ‘I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, Dr McCormick.’
She shook his hand, her grip limp, but her voice was clear when she spoke. ‘Have we met before?’
‘No, ma’am, we haven’t. I know your name, of course, and your reputation.’ He pursed his lips tightly and sighed deeply. ‘Agent Covington told me you knew the deceased well. I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you, Sheriff. May I borrow your flashlight?’
‘Of course.’ He handed it to her, a big, powerful Maglite.
Darby tucked it under her arm, then stood as though rooted to the ground.
Keep it together, she told herself. Keep it together so you can think. You only have one shot at this.
It seemed to take a Herculean effort to step forward. Now she was walking, navigating her way across the road and experiencing what almost every single rape victim had told her about: the sense of being transported outside their own bodies while they were being attacked. The psychological term was dissociation. She left her body but still felt, acutely, the dread, fear and grief scrabbling at the walls, trying to climb them so they could begin their assault.
The driver’s entire head and the left part of his shoulders were hidden behind a warped section of car roof. The seatbelt was strapped against him, and he was bundled inside a dark-green down parka; the down feathers, soaked from the river, made the jacket hang limply. She stared at the body, listening to the water dripping inside the car, and remembered that night at Logan when he’d hugged her, how wonderful he’d felt and how great he’d smelled. How, driving home that night, she’d wondered what it would have been like to hold him, skin to skin, but mainly wondered if she should have told him about how she’d realized she didn’t want to live so far away from him any more, that she missed seeing him and working with him. How they should have gone into business together, consulting. How great they were together as a team.
And, if she could have summoned up the nerve, maybe brought up the subject of trying a life as something more than just friends.
But she hadn’t told him these things and never would because Coop was inside this car, dead. She knew it was him – could only be him.
All eyes were on her, waiting. Noel Covington seemed to be caught between the urge to come over and assist or to stay put. She made the decision for him: she sidled up to the door.
Turned on her flashlight.
Then, with a sense of falling, she leaned forward to examine what remained of Coop’s face.