Darkness the Color of Snow (20 page)

“Thank you, Sean. Let me put a ­couple of things straight for you here. We found your car.”

“I don't have a car.”

“I know that, too. We found your grandmother's car. The car you've been driving. The car you were driving the night you hit Matthew Laferiere on Route 417.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, yeah, you do. Car's at the state lab right now. They're tying you to that car so many ways you'll never get away. You're going to be dragging that beater Lexus to your grave. I won't lie to you, and I would appreciate it if you didn't lie to me. You're in a lot of trouble. There's no question about that. And if you keep lying to me, you're going to be in even more trouble. Right now, I need answers, and I'll do what I can for you if you give them to me.”

The kid put his face down in the snow. Gordy could see his shoulders start to heave. “I know you didn't mean to hit him. That was an accident, wasn't it?”

The kid tries to nod in the snow, then turns his face, slick with tears that are already starting to freeze, and says, “Yeah. An accident.”

Gross pushes at his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, trying to dry it. “Will you let me up?”

“Will you run?”

“No,” the kid says. “There's nowhere to go.”

“Give me your hand. Other hand.” Gordy takes Gross's hand, unlocks the cuff from the fence and puts it around his wrist, so that he is held, hand-­to-­foot. “This will get better. Be patient.” He helps Gross get to his feet, then unlocks the cuff from his ankle and locks it on his own wrist. “OK. Come back over the fence.”

They do a complicated dance with Gordy pulling Sean by his belt and sweatshirt as the kid struggles to get back over the fence without cutting himself up on the twisted wire at the top. Clothing gets snagged and torn, including the sleeve of Gordy's jacket. “Are you all right?” he asks when the kid has made it over the fence and back on solid ground.

Sean Gross nods, and Gordy plucks at his jacket sleeve, which is already starting to disgorge white filling. “Shit,” he says. “These things cost three hundred bucks.”

The kid looks at the sleeve and says, in complete seriousness, “You can stitch that back up. It's not bad.”

Gordy walks Gross back to the cruiser. “You're not under arrest,” he tells him again. “I just need to ask you some questions. We're going to the car because it's warm in there and out of the way of traffic. You understand that?”

The kid nods. He's starting to shiver.

Gordy gets Gross into the backseat, then sits in the front seat, passenger's side, so he can turn to face him.

“Why'd you run when I came to the door?”

“Can I have a cigarette?”

“I don't have any. Can't smoke in the car anyway.”

“I have some in my pocket. We could open the door.”

“Which pocket?” Gross turns his head and looks at his front shirt pocket. Gordy reaches back, unbuttons the pocket, and takes out a box of Newports. “You got matches? A lighter?” The kid pushes himself up from the backseat and holds himself horizontal. “Right front pocket.” Gordy looks at the kid for a minute, shakes his head, and asks, “Anything sharp in there? Anything going to hurt me?” The kid shakes his head, and Gordy reaches two fingers into his pants pocket until he finds the lighter and takes it out.

He opens the box of cigarettes, takes one out, and puts it up to the kid's lips, then lights it. “Thanks,” Gross says. “You can have one if you want it.”

Gordy starts to say no, then shakes another out of the box and lights it. “If I uncuff you, you going to try anything stupid?”

The kid shakes his head.

“Turn your back to me.” When he does, Gordy unlocks one of the cuffs. “Bring your hands to the front.” When Gross does, Gordy recuffs his hands in front of him. “Again. You're not under arrest. You're cuffed for purposes of safety. Why'd you run?”

“I was scared.” Gross reaches up, takes the cigarette from his mouth, and exhales.

“Of what?”

“You. Of what you'd do to me.”

“Why are you afraid of me?”

“Because I hit that kid. Killed him.”

“All right. Now you're under arrest.” Gordy reads him his rights. “Do you understand? Everything you say can and will be used against you.”

Gross nods.

“Do you want a lawyer?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“No. I want one, though.”

Gordy exhales the smoke from the cigarette. He's already starting to feel light-­headed. It has been, many, many years since he has smoked. It isn't very good, and the Newport is much stronger than he remembers cigarettes being.

“OK. Finish your cigarette. Then I'm going to recuff you behind your back, and we're going up to the police station in Warrentown and check in, then I'm taking you back to Lydell. Anything you tell me before we get you a lawyer is admissible in court. Remember that.”

“I didn't mean to do it. It was an accident.”

“Yeah,” Gordy says. “I kind of figured. It was leaving the scene that has gotten you into all this trouble, and you are in trouble.”

“That wasn't an accident. I had to do that.”

“Hit him?”

“No. Run.”

“What do you mean, you ‘had to do it.' ”

“I went into a skid. I mean I hit something, and the car spun on me. I was trying to stay on the road.”

“You hit something?”

“Yeah. Something.”

“You didn't know you had hit someone?”

“No, man. I saw a guy. I mean I didn't see him, then I did. Then I didn't. I kept going. Later, I saw the busted headlight and all that. Like the next day some guy told me a guy got hit on 417. I still didn't know I had hit the guy.”

“You hit a guy, and you didn't know it?”

“Not until later. I figured it out. Then I knew I was in a lot of trouble. I was scared. I ditched the car.”

R
ONNY STICKS HIS
head inside the door of the police station. He catches Pete's eye and raises his eyebrows, a question. Is Gordy here? Pete shakes his head. Ronny steps into the office and shuts the door behind him. “What's going on, Pete?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Bored. There's nothing to do all day and all night.”

“Where's your girlfriend?”

“Studying. Taking tests. She's busy.”

“That's too bad. She ought to be some good entertainment.”

Ronny starts to say something then thinks better of it. Then, “What's going on here?”

“I can't tell you. I can't tell you that we think we found the vehicle. A white Lexus. A beater. Busted-­up front end. That sound right to you?”

“Maybe. I thought Camry, but Lexus could be right. You find the driver?”

“Can't tell you. Can't tell you and I don't know. I got to hit the crapper and Sue is off on an Edna's run. Come on in and sit at the desk for a bit. Gordy's off to Warrentown. You'll be safe for a bit. Don't answer the phone.”

Ronny sits down at Pete's desk, not even wanting to look at his own desk. The chair's nice and warm. Pete is like a furnace, pumping out heat at a steady rate. The office has begun to look good to him again. When he first signed on as a probationary patrolman, the office had been strange, exotic and wonderful, and it was a new world, and it was his. It's starting to look that way again. In two more days he will be back to work, and he promises himself to never again wish he weren't working.

Pete keeps the day-­watch desk neat and orderly, not like he and John do. It's almost bare except for the blotter and a ­couple of pens. And in the blotter is a pink memo. He reads it. “Working on truck at Baxter's Garage, evenings 12/16–12/24, with owner permission—­P. Stablein, B. Cabella, two others. Out by midnight.”

He reads it over twice. Ronny guesses that Stablein and Cabella are trying to get Stablein's truck on the road, no doubt. So they're still at it. Matt's gone, but Stablein and Cabella are going to keep on cruising. The truck has never run in the time he has known those guys. It's always been something in the background, like the mythical job or girlfriend.

The phone rings and he reaches for it, thinks better of it and lets it ring. It goes to the answering machine, and he hears Gordy's voice.

“Pete, I got the driver, Caplette's grandson. I'm on my way back. ETA about forty-­five minutes.”

“Gordy just called,” he tells Pete when he comes back. “He's got the driver. Things are looking up.”

“Maybe,” Pete says. “You never know. You better get on out of here before Gordy gets back.”

“Forty-­five minutes. But this is good. He's got the driver.”

“Don't go out celebrating. We've got a long way to go. Make yourself scarce.”

G
ORDY COMES BACK
to the office ushering Sean Gross through the door. “Pete, we need to book this young man. Leaving the scene of a fatal accident.”

“That's the charge? Leaving the scene?”

“For now. We'll let the prosecutor figure out the rest.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“And we'll need to provide him with an attorney.”

“I'll call the county prosecutor. She can get the attorney.”

“Just put him in the holding cell until she gets here. Sean, you need something to eat?”

Sean Gross shakes his head.

P
ETE MOTIONS
G
ROSS
to the empty chair next to his desk, then takes a pink message slip from the desk and hands it to Gordy.

“Renee Lawson, Channel Eight. And the phone number.”

“What does she want?” Gordy asks.

“You. Wouldn't talk to me. She wants you to call her.”

“Don't have anything for her.” Gordy wads up the message and drops it in the wastebasket.

“She'll just call you back.”

“Then she'll call me back. I still won't have anything for her. I'm going to lunch.”

E
DNA'S IS STILL
pretty full when Gordy gets there. It's just after one, still part of the lunchtime rush. He grabs an empty stool at the counter. Diane comes up to take his order. “Gordy. What'll you have, hon?”

He wants a burger, loaded, lots of good fries. But he restrains himself and orders the diet plate—­hamburger patty, cottage cheese, and a small house salad. He can feel eyes on him, and he leans on the counter, shoulders hunched in an almost protective pose. Guys on either side of him nod, but no one speaks. He gets up and goes to the end of the counter and picks up a ­couple of pieces of the paper. He can still feel the eyes on him, and then he sees Roger Laferiere sitting at a table with a ­couple of other men he recognizes but can't name. He starts to turn back, then turns again and walks over to Roger, who is stirring a nearly empty cup of coffee.

“Roger.” Laferiere looks up at him and nods grimly. “Roger. I want you to know that we have made an arrest in your son's death. We found the car and traced it back to a kid in Warrentown. He's over at the jail now.”

Roger keeps staring at his coffee cup.

“I just wanted you to know. We're working the case hard. We got the driver.”

He waits for Roger to answer or at least look up. “Like I said. Just wanted you to know.” Gordy turns to go back to the counter.

“He was murdered,” Roger says. “He was murdered by Ronny Forbert.”

Gordy comes back to the table. “No, Roger. He wasn't. He was hit by a hit-­and-­run driver, and we have him under arrest. It was an accident, Roger. An accident.”

“The wife and I don't see it that way,” Roger says. “It wasn't no accident. Gayle's talked to a lawyer. He don't see it that way, either. It wasn't no accident. Ronny Forbert threw our son out into that road to kill him. And he did.” One of the other men at the table nods in agreement.

“Roger, I lost my wife a little over a month ago. I know how hard this all is, but it wasn't what you think. I know you want to put an explanation on this. To blame someone for all the pain they've caused you, but you have it wrong. It was an accident.”

“It doesn't look like it from here,” the guy who nodded says. “It doesn't look like an accident. It wasn't no accident.”

“Sorry you feel that way, but you're wrong. We have quite a bit of evidence, and it all points the same way.” Gordy's tempted to say that Matt was highly intoxicated and under the influence of drugs, but he stops himself. “You're wrong. I'm sorry.”

“Cops,” a guy in a Citgo cap says. “Cops always stick together. They'll lie their asses off to protect one of their own. It's like a game they play—­Cover your ass, and then cover everyone else's.”

Gordy can think of nothing to respond to this, except to shake his head. He goes back to his seat at the counter. His salad and diet plate are waiting for him. He picks at the salad, then he eats half of the burger patty and a ­couple forkfuls of the cottage cheese. He pushes the plate away.

“Lose your appetite?” Diane asks.

“Pretty much. Take this away and bring me a slice of the apple pie. With ice cream.”

“You sure, Gordy?”

He nods and says nothing.

R
ONNY'S DRIVING TO
Warrentown. He's going to have to gas up the truck again. He's just burning up gas this week, spending money when he can least afford to, but he wants a workout, partly to burn off some of his excess energy, mostly to burn up a part of another day. All of the towns have an agreement that lets them use the state police academy facilities, a well-­stocked gym, an indoor range, a pool, and a quarter-­mile outdoor track.

He is driving west on 417 when he spots it. He hasn't confronted it yet. Though he has passed by it a ­couple of times already, he looked the other way or just let his eyes glaze over until he was past the impromptu memorial on 417. He drives a few hundred yards past it now, then hits the brakes, pulls the truck off the road, and backs up.