In the Bleak Midwinter

“I think finding another car will help.” Lyle dropped the chalk into Russ’s hand and headed for the door. “Maybe we’ll luck out and find a bloody baseball bat locked in the trunk.”

“Oh, yeah,” Russ said. “A signed confession, too. Get out of here, stop bucking for overtime.”

Lyle rounded the corner, waving good-bye. Over the sound of his boots clumping down the wooden stairs, Russ could hear him mooing.

“That guy,” he said to Mark. “Tell you what, you do the run-down on the Burnses’ registration, and I’ll cover your patrol time until you’re done. I’ll just drive the squad car home afterwards if I’m not near the station.”

“You don’t have to be home?”

“Nope. I’m batching it until Linda gets back on Saturday.”

“You got a deal.”

The streets had been plowed clear early in the morning, and the day’s sun, though intermittant, had warmed things up enough to dry up the slush. It was a pleasure to drive without having to pay too much attention to the condition of the road. Russ headed south, where the scenery opened up into long valleys between easy, rolling hills. The lights of farmhouses and barnyards scattered across the landscape, familiar and comforting. To the west, and behind him, to the north, the Piedmont rose in wave after rounded wave. The great hills broke the sky into two darknesses, the one above glittering with stars, the one below glowing, here and there, with snow.

He loved this part of the world more than any other, loved the sight of those old hills surrounding him. There was something unknowable about them, a mystery that had been there when the first Dutch and Scottish settlers had carved farms for themselves along the rivers running out of the vast wilderness. With the dark hills looming and the lights few and far between, it was easy to imagine what it had been like nearly three hundred years ago. The Adirondacks were still a wild and sometimes dangerous place, sparsely settled, with few roads in and out of the great Adirondack Park, a wilderness stretching thousands of square miles over ten counties. Every year, a few unprepared or incautious people went into these mountains and never came out.

He thought about that fight he had had with Linda their first winter here, when she was planning on driving up to Gore Mountain to consult on a curtain order for somebody’s chalet. He had insisted she pack the car with a blanket, a self-heater, a flare, and even rations. She couldn’t believe a stalled engine or a car in a snow-covered ditch could be fatal. He had won that one, and was rewarded, when she got back, by her casual observation that the chalet hadn’t had another neighbor within twenty miles. Twenty steep, single-lane, hardly plowed miles.

“Ten-fifty to Ten-fifty-seven, over.” The crackle of the radio brought him back to his squad car.

“Ten-fifty-seven, go,” he said.

“Mark’s all done, Chief,” Harlene said, “and he says to tell you he hit the jackpot. There is another car.”

“Yes!” He pumped the radio receiver in truimph. “Give that man a kiss, Harlene.”

“Well, if I gotta . . .”

“I’ll sign off and take this unit back to my house if he’s ready to roll.”

“Okay, I’ll log you off duty. You had a phone call a while back. Reverend Fergusson.”

“Clare called?”

“Ayeh. Said she wanted to talk with you about the McWhorter case.”

“Oh. That all?”

“Yes, that’s all. She’s a smart girl, she knows better than to waste a police dispatcher’s time with a lot of chit-chat.”

“Uh huh. Don’t forget who signs your paychecks, honey.”

“The town clerk. I won’t.”

He laughed. “Okay, thanks, Harlene. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He realized a second after he clicked the unit off that he didn’t have Clare’s number on him. He thought about calling Harlene back and getting it, but it was only fifteen, twenty minutes into town. He’d feel better if he could check up on her, make sure she was doing okay after everything that had happened last night. And while he was there, it would be worthwhile checking that MG of hers, making sure she was prepared for a winter breakdown. He swung the squad car across lanes and headed back north, toward the ancient hills half-hiding the winter stars.

St. Alban’s was dark when he swung past it from Church Street onto Elm. For a moment, he thought the rectory was dark, too, until he saw the lights shining out the back of the house. Of course, it was seven o’clock. She was probably making dinner. Nothing like showing up uninvited and unexpected at suppertime. He parked behind her car and trudged along the beaten-down snow. Didn’t she have anyone to plow for her? He kicked his boots against the lowest stairstep before mounting to the door.