He heard boots crunching through the snow, even though he could not see the face of the shadow that approached. But healready knew it was Sticks. And then a voice called out in recognition. “Plummer, you there?”
Denny stopped. Nothing much he could do now besides admit that he was out in the woods, shoveling dirt into a hole in the middle of the night. Certainly nothing suspicious about that, unless you were a cop investigating exactly the kind of thing that might look suspicious, like a person shoveling dirt into the woods in the middle of the night, in January, in Massachusetts.
“Yep, back here,” Denny said. No use lying about it now. Sticks could see the headlamp anyway. It wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.
“Whatcha got back there? Evidence?” Sticks came closer and shielded his eyes from the headlamp.
“I wouldn’t say so, no,” Denny said, putting the shovel back into the wheelbarrow. “Honestly, I just do clearing by night so Conservation won’t get on my case. You know how it is.”
“Actually,” Sticks said, “I do.” The Hamilton and Boxford Conservation Commissions were notorious for busting homeowners for clearing their own land without permission. Remove a dead tree from protected land and you were looking at a hefty fine, and it wasn’t unusual for homeowners to do yardwork by cover of night to avoid nosy neighbors and the watchful eye of the town.
Denny stepped back, admiring the wheelbarrow as if it were a piece of art. He took some satisfaction in the clear irritation it brought to Sticks, this back-and-forth, even if they did agree on the Conservation Commission. Ordinarily, Denny wouldn’t be so smug with a cop, but here the man was, on his property, snooping around in the middle of the night. Eat or be eaten was how he saw it.
“You know, Conservation aside, you’ve got a wheelbarrow of dirt out here in the woods in the middle of a January night,” Sticks said, taking a step closer. “A normal person might find that a little . . . odd.” He made a sniffing noise, as if he was trying to detect something in the air.
“I might ask you what would make an officer take a casual drive over to a civilian’s house in the middle of a January night,” Denny spat back. He took a step closer. The headlamp, he knew, was making it difficult for Sticks to see, and the more difficult it was for Sticks to see, the less likely he was to stumble onto the mix of sawdust and shredded paper that Denny was not-so-artfully hiding in the wheelbarrow.
“I’m sure you’re not accusing me of anything untoward, Mr. Plummer,” Sticks said, shielding his eyes again. “After all, you did scare off one of my junior officers today. Or maybe you’ve already forgotten?”
“You mean the kid you sent over here to browbeat me into giving up my wife’s personal belongings, when I still haven’t gotten back the last load of stuff I handed over to the Hamilton Police Department?” It could go on like this for hours, Denny was relatively certain. He wanted to be delicate with Sticks, but he also wasn’t about to be walked over, not on his own property. This had gone too far, and the surprise visit—two surprise visits, if you counted the earlier one—had just about pushed him to the limit.
Sticks put his arms down by his side. In the dark, Denny couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked like the officer was reaching for his firearm.
“I’d be careful, Mr. Plummer, about what you’re insinuating.” It was now the second time Sticks had used words just like these, the first having been over at the Agawam, many months earlier.
Denny thought about asking about the gun but thought better of it.Best to let a sleeping firearm lie,he thought to himself. Instead, he took up a different line of inquiry, one that he knew would also rile the officer. But at least it stayed far away from guns.
“Seems like a lot of people around here need to be careful. Isn’t that right, Officer Malkin? My wife needed to be careful. What were those words you used?Ligature marks,right? A lot of coincidences, though. Her running for the president of the PTO and all.If I were a more suspicious person, I might start thinking that there were some people in this town who didn’t much like the things that my wife was getting into.”
Sticks took a step forward. Maybe Denny had overstepped after all. “I was driving by here, you know, on duty, and I saw a strange light coming from the woods. I stopped to investigate.”
“Are you explaining it to me, or to the people who will come investigating later on?” Denny said. His voice was steady, but he was worried now. He was staring into the dark eyes of power, the kind of person who could find a woman dead in a river and hide the truth because the truth betrayed secrets that he didn’t want revealed, secrets that he knew too much about. Inside, Louisa and Ben were sleeping. Push too far and Denny might find himself frozen in the haul-out, poor Ophelia’s forever soulmate, just another senseless tragedy, a man claimed by nature. It was clear to Denny now: There were no accidents, no coincidences, not in Hamilton. Ellen Wilson’s brother, Sticks, this small-town cop, had staged this poor performance from the start. A prime suspect to divert attention from a murder had given plenty of time for the trail to grow cold. Now Denny was a nuisance. An interference. A man who needed to be handled. And Sticks was ready to do the handling.
“Plummer, don’t make things difficult,” he said. He had dropped the honorific, a sign of his growing irritation. “I’m just telling you how these sorts of things sometimes play out.” His voice was gravelly, gruff. He sounded like a television cop, Denny thought, full of bluster, like he had memorized lines from crime shows.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Officer,” Denny said. “You’ll find nothing amiss here. I’m happy to call dispatch and let them know if you’d like.” He stuck out a hand, a temporary peacemaker. If he could hold Sticks off until morning, maybe there was a chance for both of them.
Surprising maybe even Denny, Sticks grabbed the hand with his own meaty paw and pulled down. For a second, it was just a generous gesture between two men, but then the officer pulled Denny in, and even with the headlamp shining in his coal-black eyes, he whispered, “It’s cold at the haul-out, Plummer. January is the worst time of year.” He released Denny’s hand and gave the man a little shove backward, making him stumble into the muddy snow. Denny watched Sticks disappear then, a silhouette fading toward the headlights. Sticks was a problem that needed solving.
It was a fitful sleep, haunted by ghosts. Anna came to him that night, maybe the memory of her or maybe whatever remained of her in the house. Had he disturbed the dead, he wondered, riled her in destroying her papers? Neither he nor Anna ever had much use either for religion or for any sort of belief in God. They had passed this floating agnosticism along to their children, the bombastic, celebratory mood that accompanied all holidays but that omitted any mention of a host. No one being could have created a world as complex as theirs, they reasoned. Couples quarreled over all kinds of things—money and sex and communication—and surely Anna and Denny had their share of battles, but one thing they never fought over was whether or not God was in the details of their lives. When a person was gone, that was it. Evaporated. Dust.
Well, that was what he had believed. But Anna was everywhere now. He could almost see her in his peripheral vision, and sometimes, if the light was dim in the evening, he could swear she was there, sitting at the table, or curled up on the couch. Now, waking up from a terrible night’s sleep, Denny was convinced that he had been visited by her, that he had somehow disturbed the dead. What did she want, this spirit, this being who was not at rest? What could he bring her that might provide some semblance of peace?
It was early, the time of day that Anna had always preferred to keep to herself. Hank was curled up in her space on the bed.
“Is it warm where you are?” Denny said to the dark. “Did you feel it when you went?”
“I didn’t feel a thing, Denny. You don’t have to worry about that.” It was just a voice in the dark.
“Did you know? Before? Did you know what was going to happen?”
“I think everyone knows when they are going to die. Maybe not right away. But everyone has an idea that death is coming for them.”
He reached out in the dark, but there was nothing, only the cold chill of the room. She liked it to be set to 65 degrees. They never fought about God, but they fought about the thermostat, especially in winter. Even in the year since her death, he had not been able to will himself to set the temperature higher.
“I am doing my best,” he said. “I miss you. I don’t know why I haven’t said it more.” But who was there to say it to, really? His kids, who were too young to understand? Inside, every time he breathed, he felt pierced by glass. That was what it was like, having Anna ripped from him in this unpredictable way. She was supposed to be here. They were supposed to have time. Summers. Ski seasons. Long evenings looking out at the blushing dusk. People were always wanting more, filling emptiness, failing to see what was right there, but what he wouldn’t give now for a chance to do the whole thing over again. Rewind the tape, start from the beginning, and sink into every stupid last moment, get drunk on the things that hadn’t even mattered.
“I know,” the voice said.
