Darkness the Color of Snow (5 page)

“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.”

I
T'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.

W
HEN
G
ORDY 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 the 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?”

“No. Let me know when they're here. Is he gone?”

Pete nods. “Sorry, Gordy. And yes, he's gone. For now.”

“That asshole.”

“Trouble with assholes is that even natural-­born ones figure they got to keep on practicing. Tough thing when the town council president is so pumped up on ideology, he hasn't got a clue what's really going on.”

Gordy shakes his head. “It's not ideology. The ideology just happens to coincide with what's good for Martin Glendenning right now. If he could get rid of the police department, it would benefit his side businesses. For Martin the power of government is the power to screw up his enterprises.”

“And throw him in jail,” Pete says.

“One of these days, maybe, we'll do that.”

R
ONNY
F
ORBERT IS
still cleaning, trying not to think about it, not to think about anything, when his phone rings. He hopes it's Nessa, but it's his father again. He looks at his watch. Three o'clock. He tries to figure. His father could be drunk again, but he's working, over in Warrentown. He figures it's not likely, and he answers it.

“Ronny. Are you all right? I heard there was an accident.”

“You heard that from me. We talked this morning.”

“No. I was working. Over in Warrentown.”

“I called you.”

“No. I was at work. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right.”

“It was a bad accident. Guy got killed.”

“I know. Matt Laferiere. I was there.”

“But you're all right.”

“I'm fine. Some scratches. I was arresting him when he got hit by a car. A hit and run.”

“Did you fuck up, Ronny?”

“No. I was arresting him. He got hit by a car.”

He can hear the slurring, now. “I feel real bad, Ronny. You fucked up, didn't you?”

“No.”

“It's not your fault. I know that. It's my fault. I know that. Entirely my fault.”

“It's not your fault. You weren't even there.”

“I'm a terrible father. I know that. It's really all my fault. You wouldn't be such a fuckup if I had done a better job of raising you. I don't know what your mother was thinking, just running off and leaving the two of us. She was a better parent than I was. I did my best, but it wasn't very good. I'm sorry, Ronny.”

“It wasn't your fault. It wasn't my fault. It was an accident. Hit and run. And it has nothing to do with you.”

“You're my son. I should have done a lot better for you. This is my fault.” His father begins to cry. “We're just a ­couple of losers, Ronny. And that's all my fault.”

“You're drunk.”

“No. No. I mean I had a ­couple of drinks, yeah. But I'm not drunk. I'm just so sorry I got you into this mess. You should be working with me, but there aren't any jobs. I mean, you're a good carpenter. I could have helped you out.”

“I don't need your help.”

“You're going to get fired, aren't you?”

That stops Ronny. “No. I'm not going to get fired. It wasn't my fault.”

“You can come back. You can come home. I owe that much to you.”

Ronny hangs up.

I
N THE MIDDLE
of the office, a young woman, blond, in a down parka, skirt, and running shoes stands talking to Pete. Gordy recognizes her face from TV but can't place the name.

“Renee Lawson,” she says, sticking out her hand. “Channel Eight
Newswatch
. Would you mind doing the interview outside? It's cold, but the light is great, and I love the look of this old building.”

“It is that,” Gordy says. Then adds “old.” He pauses for a reaction, gets none. “Wherever. It's fine, either way.” He follows her outside. The video guy, a big, heavyset guy with long graying hair tied back in a ponytail, and a graying beard, nods and continues to make adjustments to his camera.

“This won't take long,” Renee assures him. “We'll get out of here and let you get back to your work. Mostly we want to just get the basic facts of what happened last night. It was a hit and run, right?”

Gordy nods. “A hit and run. Right.”

“Do you have the driver?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe we can get you some help on that. So, I'll ask for details on the accident and then on the car that ran. Give me all you can, and we'll run a crawl asking for help and giving your phone number. We'll post it to the website, too. Maybe someone will call in with info you can use.”

“That would be great.”

“And I'll need info on the victim. Can you give me that?”

“Some. Name, age, that sort of thing. He was an adult and his family has been notified, so we're clear on that.” He gives her a sheet John North has printed out with basic media information.

“Fantastic. And the officer involved?”

“Yes. One of our officers was on the scene.”

“I'll ask about that. And the road. There have been a lot of deaths on this road, right?”

“Four fatalities in the last seven years. Five. Five now.”

“How do you pronounce these names?”

Gordy goes over them with her.

The big video guy leaves his camera, comes up to Gordy, offers his hand. “Alex. Alex Fernandes. Can I borrow his attention for a little bit, Renee?”

Alex takes a step back and hands Gordy a sheet of white paper. “Can you hold this up for me? Just under your chin?” Gordy looks at the paper. Blank on both sides.

“Good, man. Just a little lower. An inch, maybe. That's it. Right there. Look to your left. Your other left. OK. Now to your right. That's perfect. I'm just going to mike you. Mind unzipping your jacket for just a second? I know it's cold. I'll let you zip it right back up.” Alex attaches the little lavalier mike to Gordy's collar then runs the wire down the front of Gordy's shirt and hooks a transmitter on Gordy's belt. “OK. You can zip back up. I'm ready, Renee.”

Renee looks up from the media sheet. “Is there anything you want to bring up, Chief?”

Gordy thinks. There must be something. He shakes his head. “We just want to catch this guy.”

“OK. We'll do our best for you. If there's anything else you want to say, just let me know. We will edit this back at the station. Likewise, if you fuck up, just start over. OK? So just relax and, whatever you do, don't fuck up.” She smiles. “A little joke. Keeps things loose.

“Renee Lawson, Channel Eight
Newswatch
. We're here in the small town of Lydell, just off Route 417 where a horrific hit-­and-­run accident occurred last night. With me is Chief Graham Hawkins of the Lydell Police Department.”