Cover of Snow (20 page)

The
Daily Record
was housed in an old brick building on the far side of Lake Nancy, parallel to the police department. Where the barracks stood high on a hill—an imposing location for such a small building—the
Record
sat in a valley. The rear of the building lacked a plowed path, but Ned told me to park in the lot there anyway.

I looked at him, brows raised.

“No reason to let anyone know we're here,” he said.

Snowdrifts around the lot had grown tall; it was lucky they had frozen over. We scaled a mound, boots hardly breaking through, then slid down its other side to the back entrance.

Ned took out a jingling bunch of keys, and unlocked the back door. I followed him inside. He flicked on a set of switches that illuminated a long length of hallway, and pushed buttons on a thermostat. I heard the dragon's breath of some distant furnace.

“This way,” Ned said, still speaking shortly.

I felt fingertips press upon my back. We were alone in a darkened, after-hours building, and as Ned had worked to ensure, no one else knew we were here. Why was I trusting this man I hardly knew over the police force, who had become almost like family? Over, in some terrible way, my own husband? Because Ned had lost family members to suicide, too? Because he had
told
me that he had?

Ned unlocked another door, then stood in its opening, waiting for me. I took a step forward. Ned's face relaxed and the customary crinkles appeared around his eyes. I noticed how blue the orbs were in the light cast by the fluorescents of the hall.

He entered the room, and I watched him disappear, then heard a rustle of papers. I covered the last leg of hallway to catch up.

His office was neat and spare. It had one window that looked out onto the snow-heaped field and the black, star-pricked sky. All trace of the impending blizzard was gone.

The room contained a desk with a flat screen monitor on it, as well as shelves of books. File cabinets flanked one long, bare wall. Ned had assembled a stack of neatly slit articles, and he slid the pile in my direction, gesturing to a wheeled desk chair.

I took a seat.

Ned dropped down on a corner of desk. He watched as I began to read.

Some of the events described in the more recent articles were familiar to me—things Brendan had sketched out briefly over the years—but this stack also contained sheets that were brittle and yellowing, the dates moving backward in time, headlines becoming more quaint.

Chief of Police Franklin (“Lin”) Weathers Honored at Charity Dinner

That one caught my eye for some reason, made me pause, before I continued on.

There was a story about the cops solving a string of local robberies—then being awarded a grant to keep kids out of trouble—and another featuring a Wedeskyull family that was honored at the statehouse with the cops providing escort. A teenage runaway had been brought home. Club's opening season kickoff was extolled in an article about the high school football team; Tim's sauce placed first at the annual rib-off. The mundanities of small town living, writ just a little large. There were some posts from a blog called CopShop, which I also glanced at.

“Let me make us some coffee,” Ned suggested. “Or tea for you, right?”

I nodded gratefully, laying the first page of a feature facedown on Ned's desk, and picking up its continuation. Engrossed, I added, “And do you have anything to eat?”

Ned smothered a smile. “I'll see what I can do.”

The scents of tea and something else—soup—signaled his return. Ned was carrying three steaming Styrofoam cups. I started to sip and spoon, the hot liquids traveling straight to the teething emptiness in my belly.

“So?” Ned asked, when he saw that I'd finished. He drank deeply from his cup.

The aroma of coffee still turned my stomach and I slid the chair away from the desk. “Um …” I was attempting to smooth out the pile. “We have a pretty active police force?”

Ned took another long draught, then tossed his cup in the trash, walking over to the window and laying both palms against the cold, black glass. “I'll say,” he answered dryly.

I tilted my soup for the last.

Ned repositioned his hands on the glass. “The Wedeskyull Police Department is like this well-oiled machine, every cog turning. All of them know where and when to go, and what to do when they get there. It's a regular hive of activity. Or at least, so it looks from here.”

“Well, what would you expect? Barney Fife just because we live outside the city?”

“Not to mention how nice it is up there,” Ned continued, his back to me. “The Chief's office is the size of my first apartment. He drives a sixty-thousand-dollar SUV. There's a late-model patrol car for every two men—with computers in them, no less. Those cops had computers in their vehicles before I bought my first laptop. There are police departments in major cities that still run on carbon copies. And don't forget the fleet of ATVs and snowmobiles for wilderness work.”

Taken all together, it did amount to quite a list. Briefly, I let my mind flick to what Brendan's life—and my own—might've been like if he had worked someplace else, say a drug-riddled ghetto back in New York.

Still not facing front, Ned asked, “But did you notice anything else?”

“Sure,” I replied. “I noticed how good they are.”

“Yes,” Ned said. “That's what I wanted you to see.”

Silence draped itself over the office, and finally he turned.

“In every story where the police are mentioned, they've done a great job. They have a ninety-five percent solve rate for homicides—over sixty years' worth of coverage.” Ned gestured to the pile of cut-outs. “Even allowing for the fact that there aren't that many of them and almost all are DV—that's still too high.” Ned raked his hair out of his eyes. “And amongst all these tales, nothing bad is ever written about the police. No one ever questions their actions. Everything they do is justified and it always—
always
—works.”

“This is Wedeskyull,” I said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “Domestic violence, yes, we have plenty of that. But police brutality, corruption, those things are for the city. I don't think there's even an IA department here.”

Ned began tapping his fingers on his desk. I watched them move in a strong, steady rhythm. “The police are untouchable, Nora. And you know, nothing bad ever happens
to
them either. In all that reading, I couldn't find mention of one single mishap. No cop has ever been harmed on the job or in the line of duty—”

I interrupted him. “No, that's not true. Club's father was.”

Ned's fingers stilled. “What?”

I nodded, faster now. “Mrs. Mitchell told me. He was killed, actually, not just harmed. And she said that they—the police, I guess—called it accidental.”

I recognized the look on Ned's face. It was one I wore—Brendan had described it to me several times—when the final layer of paper or plaster or paint fell away, and a house at last began to give up the secrets it had kept.

“Never made it into the paper,” Ned said. He snatched a pad from his desk and began scrawling bits of things—short, choppy notes, his mind obviously moving fast. I caught the name
Burt Mitchell,
a letter paired with numbers that I was pretty sure meant some kind of gun, and a couple of dates with question marks.

“There's someone who's begun talking to me,” Ned said, almost to himself. “I wonder what he knows about this.”

“You mean, like, an informant?”

He hesitated. “Maybe. I can't say anything more yet. I just wanted you to know … how essential you've been. What you've told me could make this whole thing come together. But listen—” Ned paused again. “I don't want you to do anything now, okay? People won't look kindly on you asking around. I have some leads to follow, and I'll keep you in the loop as much as I can.” His face broke into a grin as he looked down at his pad, then back at me. “I'll be straight. I promise I'll be straight.”

A chill took hold of my whole body; I felt rocked by its force. “You used me.”

“What?”

I clenched both hands. “This is why you've been so friendly to me. Not because we both lost people to suicide.” I felt a sob roll up my throat. “But because you knew I could help with your story.”

I spun around, the office seeming suddenly small to the point of claustrophobia. “You knew I would drive, and drive, and drive, until I found out what happened to Brendan. And you knew that was exactly the information you would need!”

“No, Nora, what are you talking about?” Ned shouted over my cries. “I just told you to
stop
searching, remember? I just told you I would do it—because I don't want you to be in any danger—because I couldn't stand it if you ever got hurt!”

The bare emotion in his tone made me start to turn away, but then our eyes locked. I began shivering convulsively, the tremors so extreme that Ned tugged me forward. I went to pull free, but as I did, I lifted my face and that was when Ned's lips seized mine, or did I move my mouth to his?

Either way, we were kissing, his mouth the only true source of heat in the universe, and I entered that warmth, took it in, drinking so deeply I thought I might drown. His lips moved over mine like heated silk, then to my neck, igniting the skin there, before traveling back again to my mouth. The wind started keening, moaning outdoors. It was Ned who stopped first, taking his hands from my face and holding me bodily away, and when he did, I screamed, a raw, unchecked sound, torn from the depths of me, as loud as the wind.

“Oh Nora,” he said, so hushed I could hardly hear him for the clatter of branches knocking against the window in the sudden gale. “It's my fault. I'm sorry. Please don't blame yourself. It happens. It can happen to anybody—”

“To you?” I burst out. “Would you have done this after your family died?”

He was staring at the floor. “I might've done anything in the days—weeks, months—after they died,” he said roughly. “Anything. And it wouldn't have mattered. If I did do something like this, I might not even remember it.” He raised his face, meeting my gaze. “Which is the biggest reason I wish we hadn't let that happen just now.”

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in.

And then something happened, maybe the only thing that could've made Ned look up, and me look away from him, both of us with a start.

Outside, in quick succession, two car doors slammed.

Ned paused for just a second, slapping his pocket, plunging his hand inside.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“I can't leave this room unlocked,” he hissed. “My laptop's in here.” He lunged for a desk drawer, yanking it open. A shadow passed over his face, a look that made the one he'd worn when he discovered his house burning appear pacific. Ned fisted his hands, and he spoke in a low growl. “Stay here. I'm going to take a look outside.”

I tiptoed over to the drawer he had opened. It was empty.

I couldn't just stay behind in Ned's office, or hunched alone in the hall. If I went out the way we'd come in, the back way, then I could conceal myself.

I retraced our steps and eased open the door.

Images of coming face-to-face with a mask played like a movie in my mind. At the least there'd be a gray patrol car, maybe a circle of them, surrounding the building like a pack of wolves. Hugging the side of the building, I began to inch forward.

Snow swarmed around me, stirred up by the wind. The rear lot was empty but for my car. The road that led to the brick structure looked clear.

Ned stalked up to me. “My laptop's gone. Goddammit, all the notes for my book were on it. Not to mention this article.”

Surely Ned had backups: a flash drive, such as Dugger had given me, or hard copies somewhere. Then I recalled. He'd had hard copies inside his house.

Ned was staring out across the snow-heaped lot. “We both heard those doors close, right?”

I nodded.

“But no one was inside the building. We would've heard them. My computer must've been taken before we got here.” Ned took a slow, dawning look around the parking lot. Gooseflesh broke out on my skin. “Did someone just leave?” he asked. “Or arrive?”

“Nobody's here now. We can see that.” I shrugged helplessly, and then it hit me. “Oh, Ned, if someone stole your laptop, I wonder if they might also have gone for—” I took off at a run for my car, Ned at my heels.

I tugged open the car door. The dome light came on, and I took a quick look inside, then one more to make sure. The second look was unnecessary: I could see my bag was gone.

I had no house, and now no phone, or money. If I hadn't stuck my keys in my coat pocket, I'd have no car either. I would've been stuck. Trapped.

“Hey,” Ned said from behind me. “What's going on? What happened?”

Before I could answer him I recalled the one possession I had that mattered more than anything else.

It couldn't have cost me more than a minute to hunch down, hunting the last thing I still owned in the world.
No one even knows it's here
, I told myself, searching the floor.
And the things inside don't mean anything to anybody else
. Still, my fingers trembled as I leaned over, sweeping beneath the seat where it must have slid during my journey, until my hand finally brushed the soft flannel of Brendan's box. I could lose my wallet, my cell, even my tools. But the items in Brendan's box were the last things he had to give. Awash in relief, I stood up.

“Well,” I said to Ned. “Your laptop wasn't the only thing that was stolen.”

I turned around on an uneven hummock of snow, scanning the lot for him.

There was nobody anywhere around.

Ned was gone, too.