The Big Thaw (17 page)

“Don’t take any chances,” I cautioned. Unnecessarily.

“Yeah, right,” said Nancy.

“We’ll wait for you to call,” I said.

“Don’t let me dangle this time,” said Nancy. She kind of grinned. Kind of. She’d done this sort of thing before.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” I said. I smiled.

Back in Maitland with only a few hours to go before my shift ended, I picked up a call from Jake at the crime lab. He was looking for Art, but good old Art was busy calling around for a parka on another phone. Dispatch gave Jake to me. Jake, himself, was in his middle fifties, and a really great guy. I’d known him for years, and agreed with the rest of the entire state that he was the best analyst the lab had.

We talked for a few moments about how the case was moving nowhere fast.

“Things,” I said, trying to be profound, “aren’t always what they seem.”

“For sure,” said Jake. “Like that cartridge case we found in our vacuum bag. I never would have guessed that in a million years.”

There was a stunned silence on my end.

“Hey, Carl, you there?”

“Yeah. Did you say you found a casing from the Borglan crime scene?”

“Sure. Didn’t Art tell you? I told him this morning.”

Well, in his favor, Art had been a bit distracted by other things.

“No, he must have forgotten. Good news, though. Now, all we have to do,” I said, “is match it to one of a million .22s in the world…”

“No problem,” said Jake. “It isn’t a .22.”

“Pardon?”

“Not a .22, although you’d think it was. It’s a 5.45 mm PSM cartridge. Very unlikely there’d be more than a handful of ’em in the U.S.”

“What,” I asked, “is a 5.45 mm PSM?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lamar perk up.

“Same thing we asked,” said Jake. “Turns out it’s a Soviet handgun, issued to troops of various sorts. Mostly KGB, NVD, and State Security. Very rare. Collector’s item, I’d say.

“About a forty grain bullet,” he said. “Not much, about two and a half grams. But ballistically about the equivalent of a .22 long rifle. The gun looks a lot like a PPK. Barrel just over three inches.”

“Automatic, then?”

“You bet, Carl.”

“And you only recovered one casing?”

“I think somebody beat us to the clean-up,” said Jake. “They just missed one.”

“Any idea how you’d go about getting hold of one of those PSMs?”

“Not a guess, Carl. No help there at all.” He thought for a second. “Maybe a gun show? Or a collector’s magazine?”

Well. In a stroke, Jake had pretty well eliminated anybody “average” in the area. I’d seen Cletus Borglan’s gun cabinet, and nothing having any connection to a handgun had been in there. Not necessarily a complete negative, but another difficulty.

He said to have Art call him. Sure thing.

I hung up the phone, and looked at Lamar. “You know anything about a PSM?”

“It’s Russian,” he said. “That’s about it.” He folded a piece of paper, and put it in his pocket. “Notes on the PSM and the cartridge,” he said.

“I’m kind of anxious to hear what Art has to say about this,” I said. But alas, Art had slipped out, no doubt on the case of finding a warmer winter jacket.

When I got home, Sue and I had a nice, late, no-pressure kind of supper. We cooked together, making spaghetti and fat-free meatballs, toasted garlic bread, a great fresh salad … It was nice. I would have had some wine, but opted for soda instead. Legally, we were always subject to being called out, and if somebody got in real trouble, I didn’t want to let them down.

We ate in our dining room, as opposed to TV trays in front of the tube while watching the news. Nice. No conversation about work. For either of us. For about two minutes.

“How are things going with Art?” she finally asked.

“Fantastic!” Well, as close as you can come with spaghetti in your mouth.

She gave me a look of disbelief.

“Well,” I admitted, “it might have something to do with his not being around today.”

“Well, just don’t let him distract you too much when he gets back,” she said. “I know you’ll do your best, but he’s just not as important as your business.”

We cleared the table, and I sat down in my recliner, started to watch the news, saw that the damned warm front was still off to the west, and slept for about an hour and a half. That was unusual, but welcome.

“Still tired from being up for about two days, like a teenager,” said Sue. “But you’re not…”

“I guess so.” I stretched. “No, I’m sure not. The nap helped, though.”

Consequently, when the phone rang at about 2115, I was almost ready to go. Full, not too tired, and a bit testy, but nearly ready. It was John Willis, the new guy. Like I’ve said, new but sharp. Respectful, as well. Not necessarily respectful of my enormous talent, maybe, but at least respectful of my age.

“Sir?”

“Hey, John. What’s up?”

“Uh, could I pick you up … I’ve got somethin’ to show you, I think…”

I went back to the living room, where Sue was reading. “Gotta go for a bit,” I said.

“I thought so.”

“Sorry … I’ll try to get back as soon as I can.”

“Something dangerous?”

“I hope not.” I grinned. “I’m too full of spaghetti to chase anybody, or to run away, for that matter.”

I went upstairs, and pulled on a uniform. I always kept my utility belt attached to my uniform pants. You do that with little fasteners, called “keepers,” that loop over the garrison belt, and secure the utility belt in place. It was much easier with the newer nylon belts than it had been with the old leather ones. Anyway, as I stepped into my uniform pants, the utility belt with its pistol holster, magazine holders, walkie-talkie holder, chemical mace holder and can, and handcuff case was already attached. All you had to do was put on the right underwear for the season, put on and fasten the Velcro straps for your bulletproof vest, put on a shirt, pull on the pants, lace your boots, and fill the various holsters and holders as you were on the way out of the room. Since it was very cold, I had to take the time to put on long underwear. But I was still fully uniformed and equipped in under three minutes. I pulled on my dark green sweater and walked down the stairs.

“Just like a forest green Batman,” said Sue, “heading out of the Bat Cave.”

I locked the chamber of my S&W? 4006 open, slipped a magazine into the butt, snapped the chamber closed with a loud clack, and dropped the hammer. Ready to go. You never knew.

“You better wear more than that down vest.”

“I’ll grab my parka from my car,” I said. “I’m gong to be riding with John for a while.”

“Be careful.” She looked up. “If you’re going to be late, give me a call. Don’t call after eleven, though, because I have a faculty meeting at seven. With all the people out with the flu, I really have to be there.”

“Okay.” I leaned down and gave her a kiss. “Have a good day if I don’t get back before eleven.”

As I walked out the back door, I saw that John’s squad car was already at the end of the drive. The porch light caught the reflective five-inch, blue-bordered gold stripe on his white car. Not too good for hiding at night, but great at wrecks. I ducked into the garage, to my unmarked car, and pulled out my Canadian Army parka. The best way to not have to spend time standing outside was to take it. Its pockets were full of neat things, like a stocking cap, thermal gloves, individually wrapped granóla bars… I also grabbed my black flashlight.

I opened John’s back door, and threw in the parka. I stuffed myself into the front passenger seat. “Hi, John.”

“Good evenin’, boss.”

I reached down and picked up his mike. “Comm, Three’s ten-eight for a while with Nine.” You had to let them know where you were, and you had to be logged as working if you got hurt. Insurance companies can be a pain in the ass about that stuff.

“Ten-four, Three.” In wraparound sound. John had wired the police radio to his stereo speakers.

“Cool,” I said. “Sounds better than in real life.” Actually, it sounded a lot more bass, and gave her a bedroom-sounding voice. A bit out of character for Eunice, whose voice I recognized.

“You ought to hear Sally,” he said, grinning. “Sounds the way you think she would in the morning. So to speak.”

“Nice. I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Wish you wouldn’t,” he said, backing onto the street. “Things are scary enough…”

“So,” I said, as we straightened out and headed out of town. “What brings me out on a night like this?”

It turned out that John had been patrolling in the area fairly close to the Borglan place last night. He had found a level field entrance at the base of a wooded hill, and had backed in about three car lengths, to have coffee and a sandwich. All lights off, but with the engine running, he was eating his midnight meal when he thought he saw something move, out of the corner of his eye. He unrolled his window a way, and listened.

“All of a sudden,” he said, “there was this whine, and something came whipping by down the road. Going like hell, it went right off the roadway and down a little bank, and off into a field. Goin’ like a streak of shit. But really quiet. I mean, really quiet. Spooky as shit.”

“I’ll bet.” We were turning off the highway, and onto gravel heading toward the general area of the Borglan farm. “What was it?”

“That’s the really spooky part. I couldn’t tell. I really couldn’t.”

“Did you get a look at his taillights? Any tire marks in the snow?”

“Sorry. Sorry, he didn’t have any lights at all. God, I can’t believe I forgot to say that.”

“That’s okay,” I chuckled. “No problem.”

“It was really dark, and I didn’t want to shine any lights in case I’d fuck something up, you know? So I just sort of sat there for a while, and waited, but nothing came back down the road. So I walked over and tried to see, but there weren’t any tire tracks, so I thought I was seeing things.” In a major rush.

“Slow down,” I said. We were slipping along at about 60, and the road was about 100 percent ice and snow-covered. “You’re driving as fast as you talk.”

“Sorry. I suppose it wouldn’t look good to have a wreck with a superior officer onboard.”

“Not with a big, ugly older one, either. Now, then, you have no idea what it was? How big was it?”

“I just got a flicker of it as it went by. I couldn’t really tell. Isn’t that the shits?”

“Yeah. So … what are we doing now?”

“Well, I didn’t want to fuck anything up, so I thought the two of us could go back down there now, and look out into the field and see what kind of tracks we had.”

“Sure. You could have done it yourself, though.” I wasn’t really resentful, or anything. But I had been so comfortable…

“Here we are,” he said, shutting off his headlights and sliding to a stop. He began backing into the little lane where he’d been the night before.

“Boy, it sure as hell is dark down here,” I said. Only starlight, and it was partly cloudy. If the landscape hadn’t been covered with snow, it would have been like a black hole. As it was, it would take several minutes for your eyes to even begin to adjust.

“Let’s just sit here a minute,” he said, “and then we can walk over and look.” He pointed as he talked. “It came from that way, and went off the road over there.”

From the left, going right. We were about fifty feet back from the road, pretty well covered by trees and large limestone blocks that had rolled off the hill years before. From what John told me, whatever it was would have rounded a curve, gone by our location, and dipped right off the road, over a small bank, and out into a field. According cording to John, the place where it had gone into the field was about seventy-five yards from our parking place.

“It pretty much had to be a snowmobile,” I said. “Don’t you think?” That explained my presence. The troops in the department knew we were looking at snowmobile tracks.

“That’s kinda what I was thinking,” said John.

“But, it was quiet?”

“Yeah, that’s what got me, too. Never heard a quiet one in my life.”

I opened my door. I felt dark-adapted enough to walk across the roadway. “Let’s go look. I’m getting really curious.” I got out of the car, took one step, and was up to my knees in snow. Apparently, the little lane was elevated a bit. “I’m up to my ass in snow over here,” I said, stomping my way back up to the surface of the lane. “Little ditch there.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. There isn’t one on this side.”

“No kidding.” Now my feet were cold, and going to get colder. The all-weather boots were great, but they sure weren’t heated.

It’s one of the peculiarities of the deep winter that the road is usually lighter than the surroundings. The paved roads are whitish with dried salt, and the gravels with packed snow. It makes it a lot easier to see the road in the dark. We squeaked in the snow as we walked across the road. Over to the bank. In darkness on the roadway, I became aware of the fact there was a bit of a moon, hidden from view behind the hill from our parking spot. The moonlight shadow of the hill reached out over the roadway. The field across the road was slowly lighting up, as a couple of clouds moved past the moon. It was like a postcard. We were standing on a roadway that curved very gently to our left, disappearing after about half a mile. It curved around a big flat field, maybe three quarters of a mile across. Like a quiet harbor in the Arctic.

We reached the bank, and I shone my flashlight on the area John indicated. Snowmobile track, all right. Fresh, with little crumbled bits and chunks of snow scattered on both sides. Straight out into the field.

I turned off my light. “Son of a bitch. Doesn’t that track lead toward Borglan’s and his hired man?”

“I think it does. Harvey Grossman, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

I looked off in the direction of the track, letting my eyes readjust to the darkness. There was a discontinuity in the snow cover, about half a mile across the field. “You see that … that different sort of area … off that way, and just before the trees …?”

He did eventually. “Yeah, that’s that lonesome machine shed of Borglan’s. You know, the one with no other buildings anywhere…”