Darkness the Color of Snow (28 page)

­People come up to him and express their disappointment and shake his hand, assuring him that they will work to get this overturned. They won't. They will want to, but the sting will fade, and this will become less and less of an issue for them. He smiles and thanks the well-­wishers.

Stan Woodridge stands to the side, smiling and nodding at the towns­people. When the last person has shaken Gordy's hand, he moves next to Gordy. “I'm sorry,” he says. “This is just the shits.”

“Is there any way to fight this?” Gordy asks.

“Yeah. Sure there is, but you're going to have to go through with it. Work with the police union to file a civil action against the town. There's an outside possibility you might be able to find a judge who would be willing to grant an injunction, but it's not a good possibility. Next year will begin the election process, and the sentiment around the country doesn't favor government or personnel. I'm afraid I can't help you, either. I'll be representing the town, unless Martin gets rid of me, too. I don't like it, but the pay I get for this helps keep my practice going. If the union does file an action, I'm going to be hoping they kick my butt.”

“D
IDN'T GO WELL
, did it?” Pete asks when Gordy gets back to the office.

“No. It didn't go well. They cut one position from the department.”

“I'm fired,” Ronny says.

“No. You're not. And if I can help it, you won't be. Not sure how I'm going to get around this, but I'm going to figure a way. No matter what you hear or read about what happened tonight, no one from this department is facing termination. I'm not going to let that happen.

“And right now, I'm getting out of here before I have to talk to anyone else. Pete, don't call me unless it's a dire emergency. Underline ‘dire.' Ronny, I'll take you home.”

“My truck's out back.”

“Can I trust you to go home and stay home and not talk to anyone tonight?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“And you should know that Stan Woodridge stood up for you and fought for you. So go on home and don't worry. Otherwise, Pete's going to cuff you, and you're going home in the trunk of my car.”

“I'm going.”

G
ORDY SITS WHERE
no one can get at him. He's left his cell phone in the house and is out here in the shop, sitting practically on top of the space heater, eating frozen M&M's, where he can't hear the house phone. He's trapped. Martin has done exactly what he wanted to. Gordy's going to lose Ronny, and he'll have to betray him in the process. Ronny is the only one he can let go, as Martin well knows. He thinks, briefly, about reducing everyone's hours by a third, so he can keep Ronny on. But Pete, Steve, and John all have families. They can't take a pay cut. The only one who doesn't have a family is Ronny. Trapped. He wonders if this is not part of Martin Glendenning's plan, to get the police department to voluntarily resign so he doesn't have to try to disband it himself.

It occurs to him that he can go in the house, unplug the phone. He could eat the fresh M&M's he bought for dinner, but this seems right. The house is still too empty for him, and he's guessing he's now addicted to frozen M&M's.

R
ONNY DOES AS
he has promised and drives directly home. There's really no place to go. Every place in Lydell will be full of talk about him. He's through. Gordy will do whatever he can to save him, but, Ronny thinks, there won't be anything he can do. The news report that he killed Matt Laferiere has ruined him.

He wants to talk. He picks up the pieces of his phone from the living room floor. It doesn't look that bad. The back has popped off and the SIM card is out. The battery has also come out. The screen has two big cracks that meet at the side of the phone. He reinstalls the battery and SIM card and tries to reattach the back. It, too, is broken. He goes to the kitchen and gets the Scotch tape. He holds the back down and carefully tapes it around the edges. Then he tries it. Nothing. He looks around the floor for any pieces he might have missed, finds a ­couple bits of black plastic, but nothing more. He squeezes the back tightly and pushes the power button. Again, nothing. He lays it on the coffee table and looks at it for a minute, then takes his hand and sweeps it off the table and onto the floor. It comes apart again. He leaves it that way.

He thinks briefly of going to Citgo and buying a cheap phone, but he's pretty well tapped out. He's stuck in his apartment for at least another day. When he gets back to work, if he's not fired before he even goes back, which seems the most likely to him, he still will be broke.

He again goes over the list of who might have done this to him—­Stablein, Cabella, or Colvington. All seem possible, none seems right. He senses the presence of Matt Laferiere, even though he's underground by now. Still, he can almost hear Laferiere laughing at him. Somehow, Matt has reached out from his grave and fucked him up, big time.

H
E GOES TO
the bedroom closet and takes out the Desert Eagle, brings it to the kitchen and unlatches the case. It's an amazing weapon. He doesn't know how he's going to pay for it, especially now that he's losing his job. He should probably find Purcell and give it back. He picks it up and holds it in his hand. He's beginning to like the feel of the gun, even if the laser sight makes it slightly out of balance. He pulls the slide back, pulls the trigger, and feels it come back together with a smooth, clean authority. Everything in the world should work as simply and as well as a gun.

He sits at the table in the kitchen, disassembling the gun, carefully laying out each piece before going to the cabinet under the kitchen sink and getting his cleaning kit. He oils each piece, rubbing each down with a soft cloth until there is only the thinnest film of oil. Then he reassembles the gun, and slowly and carefully wipes it down to get any excess oil.

He should probably take the gun back. He still owes seven hundred dollars on it, and it's money he doesn't have and isn't likely to get. He holds it in his hand. It's such a lovely thing, despite its bulk and awkwardness. He should take it back and see if he can get his money back. Probably he can't. He finally decides that it doesn't really matter anymore.

Then he puts it to his head and pulls the trigger.

“Bang,” he says. “Just, fucking, bang.”

W
HEN HE'S OUT
of M&M's, Gordy goes back into the house. He doesn't turn on the lights, but walks back to the bedroom by feel and practice. The red lights on the alarm clock next to the bed read 10:44. In the dark he undresses, crawls into the bed, and pulls the covers over himself.

The problem is simple. The conversation he started with himself in the shop begins again. Martin has boxed him in. He has to get rid of Ronny Forbert, and he has to be the one to make the decision to do it. Certainly Ronny fucked up. But it wasn't a significant fuckup. Matt Laferiere died, but that wasn't simply the result of Ronny's failure to get backup. It wasn't the lack of backup that killed Laferiere. Two officers might have been able to subdue Laferiere, but it was also likely that Laferiere, drunk, would have fought both the officers, just as he had Ronny. And there's the distinct possibility that he still would have gotten killed, and maybe taken one or more of the officers with him.

But that's idle speculation. What happened is what happened, and the effects of it rippled out continuously. How could you stop the rippling of water? As far as he knows, only time can do that, and he doesn't have much time.

 

CHAPTER 8

(DAY FIVE)

G
ORDY WAKES IN
the morning. He gets out of bed and stands slowly. His back is stiff and painful and his stomach feels overfull and queasy. Why did he eat the full bag of M&M's? He had hoped things would be clearer in the morning, but they're not. He slowly moves over to the sink, rinses out the coffeepot and starts a new one. Then he goes to the bedroom to shower and brush his teeth.

While he dresses, he turns on the TV. The big news is snow, more snow.

“That Alberta Clipper that we've been tracking will be coming through here, probably late this afternoon or early this evening. Now, this is a clipper, not a nor'easter, so we're looking at a short intense storm that will be out of here by morning. Right now, my best guess on accumulation is three to six inches over most of the area, unless this little front hits the high pressure right here and stalls. But I don't think that's going to happen. I think it's going to slide right on past, drop its three to six inches, and be out of here before the morning commute.

“There will be some shoveling for you in the morning, but the primary roads should be plowed in time for the commute, and the secondary roads not too long after. So all in all, it's not much. A lot of snow coming down for a short while and then a slow steady snowfall heading toward morning, completely gone by sunrise I think.

“And there's good news. It looks like we're going to be in for a stretch of cold weather for the next several days. So even if there isn't another snow by next Tuesday we're headed for a white Christmas.”

Gordy thinks that he probably had better get some gas to get the snowblower going while he's out for the day. Three to six inches isn't much, and he guesses that he can probably get away without clearing the driveway tomorrow if it stays more to the three-­inch level. But Vickys aren't great in the snow, even with snow tires. Better safe than sorry. He should make sure the shovel is right next to the door and pack in extra firewood as well.

“A bit of a boisterous town council meeting in Lydell last night,” Renee Lawson says, “as Lydell residents gathered to weigh their options in the light of the hit-­and-­run death of a Lydell man in police custody last week. We'll have that story when we come back.”

He sits down heavily on the bed. He didn't see anyone from the television station at the meeting last night. Where are these ­people getting their information?

Two car commercials and an Applebee's spot later, Renee is back, standing in front of the darkened town hall. “Lydell residents faced off last night over the horrific hit-­and-­run accident that left Lydell resident Matthew Laferiere dead Sunday night while in the custody of Lydell patrolman Ronald Forbert. Forbert, who is under suspension, was the subject of an unsuccessful attempt to fire him in light of the evidence around the suspension. The motion to release Forbert did not carry, but a motion to reduce the town's police department by one person did carry, and town council chair Martin Glendenning ordered Police Chief Gordon Hawkins to reduce the force by the end of next week.

“I'm here with town council president Martin Glendenning. Mr. Glendenning, what's your reaction to what happened last night?”

“Well, I'm still deeply saddened that such an event could take place in a town like Lydell. But I was proud of the way the town came together last night to support a resolution that did not single out an individual for responsibility in the affairs of the police department, which have, for a time, bothered me. I think the town showed great wisdom and courage in what they did last night.”

“Do you think the result of this resolution will be the removal of Officer Forbert?”

“I don't know. That's not up to me. We addressed a budget issue last night, and we left the specifics of the action to Police Chief Gordon Hawkins. He is the chief, and this is his responsibility as long as he is.”

Renee Lawson looks back to the camera. “There it is. Here in Lydell, the town is still reeling from the hit-­and-­run fatality last Sunday night. We'll keep you posted as things progress here in Lydell. This is Renee Lawson for Channel Eight
Newswatch
.”

“As long as he is,” Gordy thought. “As long as he is.”

R
ONNY
F
ORBERT TURNS
off the television and picks up his keys. Outside, he gets in his truck and drives to the station. As soon as he walks in, Pete says, “Aw, for fuck's sake. Don't you ever learn anything? Get out of here before Gordy gets in. He's just about had it with you hanging out here.”

“Has he said anything about firing me?”

“He hasn't said anything about firing anyone.”

“It's going to be me, isn't it?”

“Man. I don't know. I'm not the boss of this outfit. It could be any one of us. So your guess is as good as mine.”

“It's got to be me,” Ronny says.

“That's what Martin Glendenning wants. Gordy doesn't like to do what Martin Glendenning wants him to do. John or Steve or me are maybe more likely than you, just so that Gordy can piss off Glendenning.”

“He wouldn't fire any of you guys. He likes you guys.”

“Are you suggesting that Gordy doesn't like you? Are you crazy? Gordy's been caring for you for like five years. He groomed you to be on this force. He risked his career putting you on this force. And you think we're supposed to feel sorry for you because he doesn't like you enough? Get out of here.” Pete picks up a piece of paper, wads it up, and throws it at Forbert.

“Hey, hey. I'm sorry.”

“You ought to be. One of us is getting cut loose. It's going to be like losing an arm or a leg. No one wants to be the one cut loose, but more than that, no one wants any of us cut loose. We're more than just a police department, this here is a brotherhood, and we look out for each other. So don't go around thinking that anyone is feeling good about somebody else losing his job. Whatever way it comes down, it's a bad deal. If I'm not the one who goes, I may feel some relief, but I'm going to be a long fucking way from celebrating when the decision comes down.

“Now get out of here, you little shit, before Gordy comes in and chews my ass for letting you hang around. And he will chew my ass. Believe that, man.”

R
ONNY GETS BACK
in the truck and heads for Warrentown. He hasn't had a workout in a ­couple of days and he feels overdue, jumpy and flabby. He's working with the free weights when the grunter comes in. He's called that not because he grunts during his workouts, but because that's pretty much all he does. As Ronny stands before the mirror doing curls, he watches the grunter start stacking weights onto a barbell. He has what looks to be a hundred pounds on one end of the bar. He goes off somewhere for a bit and comes back, this time with his kidney belt on, and his lifting gloves. He adds plates to the other end of the bar so that it's at least level, and then he goes off again, leaving the barbell unusable for anyone else.

That's his routine. He stacks plates on bars and machines. He builds apparatus, but never actually lifts them, or if he does, never lifts more than once or twice. And he does it all accompanied by loud grunting and dropping the weights so they clang through the gym. Everyone knows he's there, but no one ever sees him actually work out.

It disgusts Ronny. It's fraud, and the guy is just putting on a show while he lets himself go. You don't have to look very hard to see that a lot of his bulk is flab. The only thing he really lifts is beer bottles. And everyone knows that he's faking it all. He isn't fooling anyone. But tomorrow he will have a job, and Ronny won't. He hates the guy. There are layabout cops like him all over the state. And they keep their jobs, while the cops who really work, who do their jobs, just get fucked over. It's the way of the world, the drunks and the fuckups and the layabouts just fuck things up for everyone else.

He's finishing up when Purcell walks in. “Hey, man. How's the Mark VII working for you?”

“Don't really know,” Ronny says. “I haven't fired it since that day at the range with you.”

“Yeah? You don't like it?”

“I like it just fine. Just haven't had the time, that's all.”

“Well, listen, if you don't want it, I'll buy it back from you. I was in a little tight space here for a while, but it's good now. You want to sell it back, let me know. Or I might be able to trade you for something you like better. Hate to see a customer unhappy.”

Ronny figures that Purcell had somehow turned up a motivated buyer.

“No. I guess I'll hang on to it.”

“All right, man. Do what you want. But listen. I'll give you more than you paid for it if you want me to take it back. Like you might want a smaller gun and some cash. I know things must be a little tight for you right now. Whenever you decide it's not your best weapon, just give me a call. I'll give you a hundred more than you paid. You know. Goodwill.”

“I'm going to keep the gun, but maybe I'll leave it to you in my will.”

“Whatever you want, man.”

“D
ON'T BE SO
glum,” Gordy says to Pete and John. “I'm going to draw a name out of a hat. You've got three out of four chances to keep your jobs, whether you deserve them or not.”

“Oh, that's just cold, man. You should get a job at the hospice, giving everyone odds on how much longer they're going to last. You'd be a comedy sensation.”

“I just may do that,” Gordy says.

“You're awful cheerful, considering.”

“No. I'm not cheerful. I'm just not going to give Martin Glendenning the satisfaction of knowing how much this is bothering me.”

“No, man. I mean you don't even look bothered.”

“I've made a decision. And I'll let you know pretty soon. So I'm not still trying to work things out, that's all. It's pretty much decided. I'm going to talk to Martin later this afternoon. Either of you want to resign?” Gordy looks from Pete to John and back again. He smiles. “I didn't think so. I'm going to be in my office for the rest of the morning. You two hold down the fort. I don't want to be disturbed.”

“You got it.”

G
ORDY EMERGES FROM
his office about an hour later. “OK. Everything in there is taken care of. Anything out here I need to know about?”

Pete starts to say something, catches himself and shakes his head. “No, man. Everything here is copacetic.”

“Good. I have some errands to run. I probably won't be back until two or so. I'm not telling you where I'm going because I don't want anyone to know where I'm going, and you two won't have to lie when you say you don't know.”

“Got it,” Pete says.

When Gordy is gone out the door, John says, “I don't much like being in the position I'm in, but I bet it's a hell of a lot better than the position he's in. I got a seventy-­five percent chance of surviving this. He's got no chance of not pissing off a lot of ­people.”

H
E MAKES HIS
way down the rocky and rutted road. He hasn't been down this road since the day they found the white Lexus, but he's maneuvering it better, as if something buried in his brain has come to the surface and he's driving the road on years-­old memory.

He stops in front of the house and knocks on the door. She doesn't answer, but he suspects she rarely spends much time in the house in the daytime. She'll be out back somewhere, attending to something. Her truck's here, so she's here.

“Need a hand?” he asks when he comes into the barn where she's breaking down bales of straw for bedding.

She looks at him for a bit. “I think I got it. Been doing it for a long time.” Her hair's coming undone from her feed store cap and hangs down at the side of her face. She reaches up and tucks a strand of it behind her ear. “You need something?”

“A bit of your time. A cup of coffee, maybe.”

“I don't drink coffee anymore. Tea?”

“Yeah. Tea.”

“I'll go in and start the water. You want to spread this straw in these two stalls? I got girls getting ready to kid.” It wasn't a question.

“Yeah. Glad to.”

“Do a good job. A doe is someone's mama.”

W
HEN HE'S DONE,
he walks into the house through the kitchen where the teakettle is steaming away on the stove. Nearby are a teapot and two thick ceramic mugs.

She walks into the kitchen from the hall that leads to her bedroom. The barn coat and cap are gone, and she's rolling up the sleeves of a denim shirt. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

“You look nice,” he says.

“You look like shit. And don't get your hopes up. Sometimes I just feel the need to brush my damned hair.”

“Just came over to talk.” He smiles.

She pours the water into the teapot and brings it and the mugs over to the table. “What do you take in your tea?”

“I don't know. I really don't drink tea.”

“Well, if you did, what would you take in it?”

“Probably nothing.”

“There's goat's milk and sugar, if you want it.”

He smiles. They had once battled over goat's milk. He refused to drink it, expecting it to be thin and bitter. He had finally drunk some on a bet and had been amazed by the smooth creaminess of the milk.

“What's up?” She leans back in her chair and puts her feet up on the one vacant chair.

“A crossroads. Came to a crossroads, and now I'm dithering. This way or that way.”

“And you came to me?”

“You're the only one I could think of who isn't either working for me or dependent on me in some other way. And you won't bullshit me.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “Goatshit you.”

“Whatever. You won't.”

“So you think. You don't know. Maybe I've changed a lot in the last few years.”