Darkness the Color of Snow (6 page)

“Gordon.”

“Pardon?”

“My name is Gordon. You called me Graham. Fucked up.”

“With me is Chief Gordon Hawkins of the Lydell Police Department. Late last night, during a traffic stop on Route 417, twenty-­one-­year-­old Matthew Laferiere was struck and killed as he was being placed under arrest by Lydell patrolman Ronald Forbert. Chief, what can you tell us about the accident last night?”

“It was a hit-­and-­run fatality in the early morning around twelve thirty, just about a mile and a half west of the state line. The young man was struck and killed during a routine traffic stop by a white vehicle, maybe a Honda Accord or Toyota Camry that was headed west on 417.”

“So there was an officer involved?”

“There was an officer on the scene. I wouldn't say that he was directly involved, but he was there. He made the stop.”

“And what can you tell us about the victim?”

“He was Matthew Laferiere, age twenty-­one, of Twisted Root Road in Lydell, a graduate of Warrentown Regional High School. He was the driver of the vehicle the officer stopped.”

“And he died at the scene?”

“It was instantaneous, yes.”

“Any more information on the car that hit him?”

“Witnesses say that it was a white sedan, probably an Accord or Camry, in the 1990-­to-­2000 range. This vehicle will have taken significant front-­end damage, probably to the right side of the vehicle—­right front fender and headlight.”

“And you're asking for help from the public, right?”

“We would appreciate any help we can get. If anyone sees a vehicle that fits that description, we would appreciate a call to the Lydell Police Department.”

“And that number is running across the bottom of the screen right now, and will be available on our website eightearlyandlate.com. What about the officer involved?”

“The arresting officer is Patrolman Ronald Forbert of the Lydell Police Department.”

“And he's a rookie, right?”

“He's been on the force for almost a year, first as a probationary patrolman, and on active duty for six months.”

“And I understand he's on suspension.”

“Yes. A preliminary investigation indicates that Patrolman Forbert performed his duties in a responsible and correct manner.”

“Well, why a suspension if he performed correctly?”

“A procedural matter. He did not call for backup in what we would consider a timely fashion. He didn't get that done. He missed on just that one thing.”

“He was also injured in the accident.”

“He received some scrapes and scratches.”

“Wasn't he fighting with the victim?”

“He was placing him under arrest. There was some resistance. That's all I can say about that right now. There is an investigation under way.”

“Is it likely that charges will be brought against the officer?”

“No. He was performing his duty. There won't be charges brought.”

“But he struggled with the victim.”

“The victim resisted. There was a struggle. All indications are the officer acted appropriately.”

Renee Lawson turns away from Gordy toward the camera. “There you have it, a hit-­and-­run fatality in the small town of Lydell. If you have any information that will aid Chief Graham Hawkins and his staff on this investigation, please call the Lydell Police Department at the number on your screen. Renee Lawson, Channel Eight
Newswatch
.”

“Gordon.”

“Pardon?”

“Gordon, not Graham.”

“Police Chief Gordon Hawkins. We'll get that in editing.”

R
ONNY'S PHONE RINGS
again. He checks it. Vanessa. “Hi,” he answers.

“Are you OK?”

“I'm fine.” He wonders for a second if he should change his voice mail message to simply,
I'm fine
. “How are you doing?”

“I'm fine. Busy. Finals and all. But you're all right? You're not hurt?”

“No. I'm not hurt. You heard what happened last night.”

“Some of it. Matt's dead.”

“Yeah. Matt's dead.” He can't think of anything else to say.

“I'm glad you're OK. I was worried.”

“No. I'm OK.”

“Well, what did happen last night? Are you OK to talk about it?”

“Can you come over?”

“I have a big lab tomorrow. It's part of the final.”

“I don't really want to talk about this on the phone.”

“If I come over, I can't stay.”

He pauses for a long time. “Coming over and not staying is better than not coming over, I guess. I think I need to talk, just not on the phone.”

“All right. I'll be there in a hour. Maybe two.”

“Fine.”

G
ORDY WALKS INTO
a cold house. He thought he had stocked and banked the woodstove to keep it going all day. But the cold was not as bad as the emptiness of the house. He goes out the back door and walks into his woodshop. There, inside a toolbox, he fishes out the bag of M&M's he had hidden out here so that he wouldn't have to eat them in front of Bonita, whose diabetes left such treats forbidden. He opens the bag and pours out a handful. They're frozen, of course, but he's become fond of frozen M&M's. He's not sure why he still keeps them hidden in the toolbox. He wishes he had Bonita to talk to. Without her, he feels untethered. He had always brought his problems to her.

They had been together for forty years, since they had met in Texas when he was an MP stationed at Fort Bliss. She was a student at UTEP, and he was taking two classes, using the army's long way toward a college degree. They met in English class. The United States was conducting small operations in Vietnam, sending advisers from the army to train South Vietnamese soldiers in what was looking more and more like the beginnings of a civil war. Arguments about the U.S. role in Southeast Asia were just beginning, and he had impressed her with a quiet, reasoned defense of the U.S. presence there, and, even more, an ability to listen to the arguments of the other side with a calm, steady respect.

She caught him one day after class. “I like the way you make your point in class. It makes you seem smart.” He was taken aback. He had noticed her, thought her pretty, smart, and quiet. He was surprised that she would approach him, the army guy, who wasn't quiet, and who was in a constant battle to show these kids that he was as smart as they were.

He smiled. “Maybe I am smart.”

Yes. She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, you could be. But I kind of doubt it, and you're certainly wrong.”

“About what?”

She smiled. “Most things.”

“I guess that's better than
everything
.”

“You could probably work your way to that.”

“How can I convince you that I'm not stupid? Wrong, maybe, but not stupid.”

She shook her head and tsked. “I doubt you could prove it. But you can try if you want.”

“How about dinner and a movie?”

“What movie?”

“That new one with Peter Sellers.
Dr. Strangelove
.”

“Good choice. Probably just dumb luck, though.”

“You can explain it to me afterward.”

She smiled more broadly, then. “I'll do my best.”

“Me, too.”

That began an interrupted arc of their lives together that included two tours in Vietnam for him, a twenty-­four-­year career as a teacher for her, and after the army, a career in police work that took them to the Northeast and finally settled them in Lydell, seventeen years ago.

Bonita had retired, in part due to a general decline in her health as her diabetes became less and less manageable. Gordy kept looking for police work that was less dangerous and less stressful, going from Boston, to Providence, to Salem, New Hampshire, and finally to Lydell where he spent ten years moving from patrolman to sergeant and finally chief of police.

He had given up on showing her that he was as smart as she was. He wasn't. He'd figured that out early on. Teaching elementary school was a necessary and important job, but he had always thought that her intelligence was being wasted there, though he couldn't think what she might do that would be more important. Living with her raised his appreciation of teachers, though. They didn't get credit for being as smart and hardworking as they were.

In school he had pretty much thought that teachers were fakes, reading a ­couple of chapters ahead in the textbooks, spending their summers hanging out and taking long vacation trips. He guessed a lot of ­people felt that way, and a lot of them never quite outgrew it. He had always been proud of Bonita, even though he knew she could have done better. In a lot of ways.

He had watched her fight against the diabetes, struggling to control her weight, finding odd times in the morning and afternoon to exercise, watching her diet, trying to avoid taking the insulin injections. She fought hard, and the disease made its gains slowly, but it gained on her. Daily insulin injections started when she was in her fifties. Then came the fatigue, as if all of her fighting had finally sapped her strength so that she wouldn't recover it. Then the neuropathy, slowly, steadily crippling her until it eventually took her legs at the knees.

And what legs they had been. When he first noticed her in English class, he noticed how demure she was, but it was impossible to ignore the legs, long and coltish. Even under a full skirt they couldn't be ignored. Early on it took him a while to say anything because he didn't want to appear overly lecherous and scare her off, but in the springtime, when she showed up for an evening date in Bermuda shorts, he told her she had beautiful legs.

“I do, don't I?” she said.

“I thought it would embarrass you if I said that.”

“You didn't think I knew? They got your attention, didn't they?”

“I didn't think you knew.”

“You're sweet,” she said. “Dumb. But sweet.”

T
HE KNOCKING ON
the door wakes him up. Ronny looks at the TV where
Monday Night Football
is in progress. He has fallen asleep, waiting for this. He gets up quickly and goes to the door. Vanessa.

“Sorry I'm so late,” she says. “There was an optional question on the final. I thought I better do it.”

“You think you needed an extra question?” he asks, momentarily relieved to be on this sidetrack of the conversation.

“No. I did well. I know that. But what if he decides that he's only giving A's to the ­people who choose to do the optional question as well. See what I mean? You could get screwed for doing too well. I mean, if you figure you did well and skipped the extra question. I had to do it.”

“Yeah, I guess. Sounds pretty bizarre, though. A little paranoid?”

“Who isn't? I mean, you've got to be. At least sometimes. How are you?”

“Fine. I'm good.”

“But you got hurt.”

He pulls up his sleeve and shows her the bandage. “Road rash. A week or two and it will be gone. Some on my leg, too.”

“You poor thing.” She steps in and gives him a hug. When she steps back, he tilts his head to kiss her, but she is already moving to the side to put down her things.

“You want some coffee? Anything?”

“No. I'm afraid I can't stay. I have another final in the morning. I'm going to have to study for it tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because it's a final. I have to do well.”

“But you will do well. You're smart. You do all your work. You will.”

“Thanks. I wish I could believe that.”

“You've got a 4.0.”

“Because I work hard. That's why. Besides I'm here for you, not to argue over grades. You're really all right? It must have been awful.”

“Yeah, I mean, I wish it had never happened.”

“It must have been horrible. You saw it all happen?”

“I was right in the middle of it. I was trying to cuff him when he got hit.”

“Then you're lucky you didn't get hit.”

“Yeah. I guess. I don't feel very lucky. I got suspended for five days.”

“They suspended you? Why?”

“Because I didn't call for backup. You're supposed to when you think there may be trouble, and I had a car full of drunks. Trouble. I should have called.”

“But you didn't kill Matt. You weren't the cause.”

“No. He fell in the road and got hit by a hit-­and-­run driver. I didn't really do anything to cause his death. If there had been another officer there, maybe Matt wouldn't have tried to resist arrest. That's the thinking. That's why I'm suspended, and I see their point. But I figured I knew all those guys and I could handle them. I wasn't really even going to arrest Matt, probably. Not until he started fighting with me.”

“You had a fight?”

“Not really. He knocked me down with his car door. The next thing I knew he was out in the road and the car came right over the hill.”

“Was it awful?”

“I hope I never see anything like that again.”

She came in to him and hugged him again. “I'm so sorry. What a terrible thing to happen.”

“It's a little rough. I really wish it hadn't happened.”

She reaches out and touches his face, her fingers tracing along his jaw and cheek. “I feel so bad for you.”

“I wish you would stay. I'm pretty tired of being alone. I could use some company.”

She shakes her head slowly, then rests it on his shoulder. “I'm sorry. I have to study. You know that.” She lifts her head and looks him in the eye. “Can you understand that?”

“I guess.”

“I know this is very hard for you, because it's very hard for me. I'm doing my best not to deal with this right now. My boyfriend is in a terrible accident in which my ex-­boyfriend dies. I'm not ready to deal with that. Let me get through my last finals, and then I'm right by your side. All the way.”