Darkness the Color of Snow Read online

  “Matt’s dead,” he says.

  “Matt was a piece of shit, and he got killed by an even bigger piece of shit. You remember that.”

  Maybe Matt was a piece of shit. Maybe he’s a piece of shit, too. But Matt Laferiere and the others were the only ones who didn’t treat him like a piece of shit. Even though he was the “virgie,” Matt and the others treated him right. Like he was someone. This is so fucking messed up.

  RONNY DOES WHAT Pete told him to do. He leaves the station, feeling the emptiness on his right hip where he keeps his weapon. As he climbs into his truck he suddenly feels a great weariness. He parked the truck here a little over twelve hours ago, but it seems he hasn’t been in it for weeks.

  His truck is his favorite possession, certainly his largest and most expensive. It’s a Dodge 1500 four-by-four. He bought it the day after he graduated from the academy, the day before he was hired on full-­time as a Lydell cop. He struggles to make the payments, but he won’t consider giving it up for something cheaper. It is the first nice, new thing he has ever owned.

  His apartment is cold. Usually coming off the night shift, it takes a ­couple of hours for him to settle down enough for sleep, so he keeps the heat low, only turning it up when he gets home. It’s a small apartment, the upper floor of a two-­story garage that belongs to Nathan Greene, the pharmacist, who lives in the house in front of the garage. The furnishings are sparse. Most came with the apartment. The only thing that’s his is a forty-­inch flat-­screen TV that sits on the stand they threw in to sweeten the deal.

  He thinks about having the TV attached to the wall, but he likes knowing he can just pick it up and take it with no hassle. He could, if he wanted, be completely out of the apartment in two hours.

  He kicks up the heat and makes a pot of coffee, though he is not particularly fond of it. It’s Starbucks Sumatra, Vanessa’s choice, pre-­ground in deference to him and her only contribution to the apartment, though she stays over at least once a week. He stays at her place about the same, maybe more, especially if he has the weekend off. He prefers his place because it’s closer to the station, and he wants to be ready to respond in a hurry if there is an emergency, but hers is nicer. The only emergency they’ve had in the months he’s been on the force was last night, and he was right in the middle of it.

  He calls Nessa while the coffee brews. At just two rings he gets voice mail. “Hi. There was a bad accident last night,” he says. “I was involved in it. I’m OK. I spent the night in the hospital, but I’m OK. Call me.” He clicks the call screen off, relieved that he didn’t have to tell Vanessa he had killed her old boyfriend, but still dreading the conversation.

  He goes into the bedroom to shower and change his clothes. He tries to keep the bandages on his leg and forearm dry, but it’s impossible. He’ll have to go to the drugstore later and get gauze and tape, but for now he pats them dry and hopes they’ll stay on to keep the wounds from bleeding into his pants and shirt.

  Both his pants and shirt are ripped. That looks like another hundred or so dollars. Maybe the dry cleaner’s can mend them, but he’s afraid they’ll never look right again. He puts on a T-­shirt and his other pair of tactical pants, then a sweatshirt. He takes out his dress shoes, which are shined to a high luster, and wears them, though they look ridiculous with the pants. He checks his boots to see how much damage they took last night. They’re badly scuffed, but he’s sure he can salvage them.

  He goes back to the kitchen, pours a cup of coffee, and carefully wipes up the drops that spill and the bits of grounds around the pot. Then he takes a paper towel and rubs the surface of the coffeemaker, removing a ­couple of smudges. He takes the coffee into the living room and turns on the TV. ESPN SportsCenter. He’s not a big sports fan, of any kind. But he lives in a world where it seems everyone is a sports fan. So he watches ESPN and tries to remember things. The Steelers are the most important. They’re going to make the play-­offs. And the Patriots, too. The Jets and the Giants don’t have a chance. He can use that when he finally gets back to the office.

  There’s a stack of Law and Order magazines on the coffee table. He studies these, too. It’s a continuation of his AA in criminal justice. He sorts them by date, then restacks them on the coffee table, newest issues on top.

  When his coffee cup is empty, he takes it back to the kitchen, rinses it, washes and dries it, and puts it back in the cupboard. There are four mugs there, in different but complementing colors. He keeps them in a line, each handle just touching the mug to its right. Then he pushes the coffeemaker back on the counter and aligns it with the toaster. He reaches into the cabinet under the sink and takes a bottle of 409 and a sponge and washes the counter and the sink, working on the faucets and handles. Because they are old and scratched, he pays particular attention, bringing up a shine where there is still chrome plating left. Then he takes the 409 and heads into the bathroom and goes to work on the shower, sink, and toilet. Later he will sweep and mop the floors. He does this every day. It will take him two hours, which means he will be done by eleven. It is going to be a long five days.

  When he comes back into the bedroom, he sees the boots he had set aside. He gets his polishing kit from the closet, carries it and the boots into the kitchen, where he unlaces the boots. He pours a bowl of water from the faucet, takes a rag, wets it, and begins wiping the shoes to get off the dust and mud. Then he takes another rag, coats it with saddle soap, and scrubs each boot to get the grit and salt off. When that’s done, he opens a can of polish, sets a match to it, and lets it burn for a few seconds before he puts the lid back on and douses the flame. Then he takes a cloth, dips it in the now liquid polish, and begins rubbing it into the leather. That done, he buffs the boots, then starts the process over again. He does this until he has five coats of polish buffed to a high shine. He washes the bootlaces in the sink and drapes them over the kitchen faucet to dry. He has used up forty-­eight minutes.

  He checks his phone. Two calls from Nessa, one from his father. He swipes the screen and turns the phone off, puts it in his back pocket, then pulls it out again and dials Nessa’s number. He wants and dreads to talk with her. It rings twice and goes to voice mail. She’s in class. “Hi,” he says. “It’s me. I’m home. I have the day off. Give me a call. I guess you heard what happened. I’m OK. Give me a call.”

  He’s trying to repair his pants, but he has no skill with a needle and thread. He will have to take them to the dry cleaner’s, who will send them to a tailor in Warrentown. Or buy a new pair. The shirt has to go to the cleaner’s as well. Buying a new uniform will take more money than he should be spending right now. He lays out the torn uniform for the dry cleaner’s.

  When the phone rings he answers it immediately, expecting Nessa. He’s surprised when he hears his father’s voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. A little road rash, nothing more.”

  “That’s good. I was worried when I got your call. I had heard there was an accident, but I didn’t hear any details.”

  Ronny is relieved to hear his father sounding sober. “Matt Laferiere got killed last night.”

  “Yeah. I just heard that. I know he was your friend. I’m sorry.”

  “Not so much anymore. Friend, I mean. We didn’t have much in common.”

  “Still. It must be hard. But you’re OK. What happened?”

  “I was trying to arrest him. Drunk and disorderly. We fought. He ended up in the road and got hit by a hit-­and-­run driver. Dead at the scene.”

  “Well, glad to hear you’re OK. I have to get back to work. Big remodel north of Warrentown. Don’t know where ­people get the money, but glad they do.”

  His father is a finish carpenter and master cabinetmaker. He had wanted Ronny to join him in the business, but Ronny couldn’t take the idea of a life of sawdust and cutoff fingers for almost no money at all. Just living from one bottle to the ne
xt.

  THE LAFERIERES LIVE on Twisted Root Road, a dirt road that was once a wagon trail. There was contention about whether it was an actual town road, but the town has been plowing it for as long as Gordy can remember, so he guesses it is. There are only two houses and the ruins of a nineteenth-­century spring factory on the road. The Laferieres live just beyond the ruins.

  It’s a rambling mess of a place that sprawls over two acres. The center of it is a double-­wide trailer that has been added on to three or four times. The additions jut out at odd angles. Roger Laferiere is a decent builder, but a terrible architect. There are three outbuildings, two of which seem to be chicken coops and the other a tack room or shop. There are junked cars, trucks, and tractors scattered about and old farm implements rusting into the ground. There has been an epidemic of thefts of farm equipment, but this stuff is far too old to be part of that.

  Gordy parks the cruiser next to the house, or whatever it is, and walks to the front door and knocks. It’s a chore he’s performed many times before. There’s no answer. He knocks again, waits a bit, and turns toward the cruiser. There is a beaten but intact Ford F150 between the house and the chicken shacks, so he assumes that at least one of the Laferieres is home. He walks between the cruiser and the truck, toward the shack, calling, “Hello.”

  “Chief.”

  He turns to see Roger Laferiere walking from the direction of the shop building. Roger’s dressed just as Gordy had last seen him, and as he always sees him—­jeans and boots, a barn coat covered in grease and torn at both sleeves (in summer this is replaced by a cotton long-­sleeved shirt). He always wears a battered, billed plaid cap.

  “Good morning, Roger.”

  “Not a goddamned thing good about it.” Roger puts a cigarette to his lips and lights it. Out of habit, Gordy guesses, Roger extends the pack toward Gordy, who waves it off.

  “Well, no. Of course not. I’m so sorry, Roger.”

  Roger nods and tilts his head waiting to hear more from Gordy.

  “Mostly, I’m here to offer my condolences, something I should have done more of last night. I’m terribly, terribly sorry for your loss.”

  Roger nods, starts to say something, then stops.

  “I also have some information for you. The autopsy is being performed this morning, and they should release Matt’s body to you by late this afternoon.”

  “They cut him up?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s the law. There’s no way around it. I can’t do anything to stop it.”

  “Why do they do that?”

  “Like I said. The law. This is a criminal case, and there will have to be evidence presented in court.”

  “Against who?”

  “Whoever killed him. The driver of the car. We don’t know, yet, who that is, but we will soon.”

  Roger again starts to say something and stops. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and crushes it into the ground with his boot.

  He hears a woman’s voice behind him. “It was Ronny Forbert who killed him.”

  Gordy spins around to face Gayle Laferiere, who has come up behind him. “Gayle. I came to express my condolences.”

  “Ronny Forbert is who killed him. He wasn’t driving the car, but he killed my boy.”

  “No, Gayle. That’s not true. There was a struggle, sure. But Ronny did not kill your son.”

  “We’ll come to find something different. We got a case against this town on this.”

  “No, Gayle. I don’t think you have a case. It’s a clear-­cut hit and run.”

  “Martin says we have a case.”

  “Martin? Martin Glendenning?”

  “He said so. And he knows. He’s president of the town council. He says we got a case against you, the town, and Ronny Forbert.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He was just here. He told us that. Ronny Forbert is an incompetent moron, and he got the job on the police force because he was your pet.”

  “Gayle, none of that is true.”

  “Martin says it is.”

  “I can’t believe he would say that. Martin’s wrong about a lot of things, but on this one he’s really wrong. You need to talk to a good lawyer.”

  “We’re going to do that.”

  “I also came to tell you that you can claim Matt’s body this afternoon.”

  “They cut him up,” Roger says.

  “Of course they did. Goddamn you, Gordon Hawkins. Why won’t you leave my boy alone? You tormented him when he was alive and now you’re still at it when he’s dead. I suppose you’re on your way over to the hospital right now, just so you can piss on his body. Goddamn you, Mr. Hawkins. This ain’t over. Not by a long shot.”

  IT’S SO MESSED up. All day at school kids keep coming up to Sammy, asking him about the accident. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but everyone wants to know.

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “Yes,” he says, but he’s not sure he really did. See it. He’s not sure he actually saw the car hit Matt. He saw it drive away, but he’s not sure what he actually saw. His vision was partially blocked by the car. He saw something. He saw something, saw Matt come flying, but even now he’s not sure. He lies. “I saw the whole thing. Really messed up. Really, really fucking messed up.”

  “It knocked his head off, didn’t it? You saw that, didn’t you?”

  “No. It smashed his head.” This he saw, afterward. It was the worst thing he has ever seen.

  “You saw his brains?”

  “Yes.” He has a clear image of blood and gore. Maybe his brain in all of that mess. He remembers Matt’s teeth scattered in the blood. Maybe an eye. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but everyone else does.

  “Really? His head smashed to pieces. Whoa, dude. How fucking cool.”

  No. Not cool. Just fucked up. Really fucked up. He starts telling the story. Matt flying through the air until he hit the Jeep headfirst. His head smashed open like a Halloween pumpkin. At first he thinks he is going to throw up again. But as he keeps telling the story, he feels better, like it was something from a movie, something he saw in some movie. He keeps telling it and telling it.

  In class, he can’t concentrate. He tries to draw it on lined paper in his notebook, but he can’t. There’s too much. He walks out of class.

  “Hey, Colvington. Tell me, man. Tell me what you saw.”

  Just messed up. Completely fucking messed up.

  WHEN GORDY GETS back to the office, Martin Glendenning is talking with Pete. He can’t quite read Pete’s expression: angry, disgusted, but more than that.

  “Gordon,” Martin Glendenning says when he sees Gordy. “How are you doing this morning, Gordon?”

  Gordy just stares at Martin for several seconds, then shakes his head. “How do you think I’m doing? I just talked with the Lafe­rieres.”

  “Tragic,” Martin says. “It’s just a tragedy. What a horrible thing. For the Laferieres. For you. For all of us. All of Lydell.”

  Gordy starts to turn his back on Martin and walk into his office. He gets two steps and turns. “Martin, did you tell the Laferieres they should sue the town, and me?”

  “Gordon. Of course not. Of course I didn’t. I spoke with them. Expressed my condolences. The town’s condolences.”

  “The Laferieres said you told them to sue the town.”

  “No, Gordon. I did tell them that there might be legal ramifications about what happened. But no, I didn’t tell them to sue. Why would I do a thing like that? I mean, the poor ­people. They’re dealing with enough right now.”

  Gordy just glares at Martin and then turns away again.

  “Gordon. We need to talk. About what happened.”

  “I think there’s been enough talk right now. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But Gordon, you’re the chief of police. I’m th
e town council president. We need to discuss this.” Martin shakes his head. “This is a major incident. The town is going to have to answer for this. We must talk.”

  “Not now. Not now.”

  “Gordon, you can’t hide from this. There are serious issues here. You know that.”

  Gordy keeps walking.

  “We need to talk about the whole Ronald Forbert issue.”

  Gordy stops. “What Ronny Forbert issue?”

  “What issue? He’s a rookie patrolman. He got a man killed last night. Your Ronald Forbert. The Ronald Forbert you hired. That issue. This casts the town in a very bad light, Gordon. We could get sued over this, Gordon. Lydell could be ruined once and for all over this. Your mistake.

  “We have a whole town of young men. Good, able young men, who would have loved to join the police force. Good students, never in trouble. But you had to have Ronald Forbert, when we could have done something good with that position.”

  “Like give it to the kid of one of your cronies? Trade it for something you need?”

  “We’re going to get sued over this, Gordon. You just wait and see. We’ll get sued.”

  “If we get sued, it’s because you’re putting the idea in the Laferieres’ heads, Martin.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I could lose my job. We could both lose our jobs. I like my job. Not sure you feel the same way about yours, Gordon.”

  Gordy turns to Pete. “I’ll be in my office. I don’t want to be disturbed.” He walks into his office and slams the door behind him. He sits at his desk and starts picking up pieces of paper at random, looking at them, putting them in new piles without reading them.

  Several minutes later there’s a knock on the door and Pete comes in. “Sorry, Gordy. I know you want to be alone, but Channel Eight is on its way for an interview. You want me to handle that?”