mean what you say, that will be enough. You must take care of that family. Be good to them.”
“I will,” he said. “I love you.” Mackenzie spoke without thinking whether Alicia would want to hear that now. He thought of what she’d said about Madeleine and the Pfeiffers. He loved her for her purity of vision, but he knew he could not hold to it himself. She has that luxury, Mackenzie told himself, of being able to say what should happen in a perfect world. She never had to learn to fight dirty, the way I did. He knew how much Alicia would despise what had been done. God, he thought, it’s hard to keep the fighting clean.
CHAPTER 5
A s Dodge drove his patrol car down the long dirt road to Coltrane’s farm, the horrible daydream passed through his head that he might already be too late. He felt sure that whoever had spiked that tree would have come across Coltrane’s property. If Coltrane had stumbled onto the intruder, he might have gotten himself killed. And his wife, Clara, too. He stamped on the accelerator, sending grit and pebbles ricocheting off his muffler pipe. The tall grass in the ditches was spotted with purple chicory flowers and black-eyed Susans. Their colors were so bright they made him dizzy.
At the end of the valley, he could see Coltrane’s faded red barn. The grain silo was stooping to one side, as if trying to get a peek down the chimney of Coltrane’s house. The farm had fallen partly into disrepair since Coltrane took on the job of company foreman. Before that, he had managed to keep some crops going. Now all he had was a cornfield.
On most occasions, Dodge liked coming out here. It was a peacefulvalley and he never went away from Coltrane’s without some pie or a dozen eggs or a bottle of the maple syrup that Coltrane boiled down every spring. He thought about blueberry pie, the berries picked off the mountainside by Coltrane’s wife. He knew the way she used her thumb to brush the berries into her palm and the red-speckled enamel bowl in which she brought them home. Clara took a pleasure in the simplicity of her life, while people in town stormed through their days in a fury of conflict and control. From living so close to the land all this time, the Coltranes had realized something that could not be put into words. You could tell it just by looking at them. It was a kind of innocence, but one which came only after years of quiet reflection. Maybe that was it, Dodge thought. The Coltranes just took time to think. Dodge drove into the black-muddy farmyard and cut his engine. Worry sent the blood thumping in his temples. The barn towered above him, shaving the late-afternoon sun from the roof of Coltrane’s house. “Please don’t let them be dead,” he said to himself.
Coltrane’s two dogs, Tucker and Bugs, apricot-colored muddles of collie and shepherd, came running from the shadow of the barn and barked until they recognized him. They sniffed his hand and smudged their wet noses up against his palm, tails wagging furiously. Then they wandered back into the shade and flopped down in the straw-covered dirt.
Dodge stood in the silence of the barnyard, slowly wiping his dog-sniffed hand on his shirt. He did not trust the quiet. He pulled the revolver from his belt and glanced at the cylinder to see if it was loaded. The dull gray of bullets nested in the shiny blue-black steel. “Hello?” called Dodge. His voice seemed to sink into the dust and bleached planks of the farmhouse. His imagination swam with blood.
Just then, there was a movement in the barn. Dodge raised the revolver and cocked the hammer, not caring who it was who walked out of the shadows, as long as he had the person in the fat sights of his gun.
Coltrane appeared. He wore faded canvas work clothes. His many pockets were always filled with wrenches and screwdrivers and bits of leftover sandwiches. The sun had rubbed itself into his skin, so that even in winter his cheeks were the cheerful red of McIntosh
“I will,” he said. “I love you.” Mackenzie spoke without thinking whether Alicia would want to hear that now. He thought of what she’d said about Madeleine and the Pfeiffers. He loved her for her purity of vision, but he knew he could not hold to it himself. She has that luxury, Mackenzie told himself, of being able to say what should happen in a perfect world. She never had to learn to fight dirty, the way I did. He knew how much Alicia would despise what had been done. God, he thought, it’s hard to keep the fighting clean.
CHAPTER 5
A s Dodge drove his patrol car down the long dirt road to Coltrane’s farm, the horrible daydream passed through his head that he might already be too late. He felt sure that whoever had spiked that tree would have come across Coltrane’s property. If Coltrane had stumbled onto the intruder, he might have gotten himself killed. And his wife, Clara, too. He stamped on the accelerator, sending grit and pebbles ricocheting off his muffler pipe. The tall grass in the ditches was spotted with purple chicory flowers and black-eyed Susans. Their colors were so bright they made him dizzy.
At the end of the valley, he could see Coltrane’s faded red barn. The grain silo was stooping to one side, as if trying to get a peek down the chimney of Coltrane’s house. The farm had fallen partly into disrepair since Coltrane took on the job of company foreman. Before that, he had managed to keep some crops going. Now all he had was a cornfield.
On most occasions, Dodge liked coming out here. It was a peacefulvalley and he never went away from Coltrane’s without some pie or a dozen eggs or a bottle of the maple syrup that Coltrane boiled down every spring. He thought about blueberry pie, the berries picked off the mountainside by Coltrane’s wife. He knew the way she used her thumb to brush the berries into her palm and the red-speckled enamel bowl in which she brought them home. Clara took a pleasure in the simplicity of her life, while people in town stormed through their days in a fury of conflict and control. From living so close to the land all this time, the Coltranes had realized something that could not be put into words. You could tell it just by looking at them. It was a kind of innocence, but one which came only after years of quiet reflection. Maybe that was it, Dodge thought. The Coltranes just took time to think. Dodge drove into the black-muddy farmyard and cut his engine. Worry sent the blood thumping in his temples. The barn towered above him, shaving the late-afternoon sun from the roof of Coltrane’s house. “Please don’t let them be dead,” he said to himself.
Coltrane’s two dogs, Tucker and Bugs, apricot-colored muddles of collie and shepherd, came running from the shadow of the barn and barked until they recognized him. They sniffed his hand and smudged their wet noses up against his palm, tails wagging furiously. Then they wandered back into the shade and flopped down in the straw-covered dirt.
Dodge stood in the silence of the barnyard, slowly wiping his dog-sniffed hand on his shirt. He did not trust the quiet. He pulled the revolver from his belt and glanced at the cylinder to see if it was loaded. The dull gray of bullets nested in the shiny blue-black steel. “Hello?” called Dodge. His voice seemed to sink into the dust and bleached planks of the farmhouse. His imagination swam with blood.
Just then, there was a movement in the barn. Dodge raised the revolver and cocked the hammer, not caring who it was who walked out of the shadows, as long as he had the person in the fat sights of his gun.
Coltrane appeared. He wore faded canvas work clothes. His many pockets were always filled with wrenches and screwdrivers and bits of leftover sandwiches. The sun had rubbed itself into his skin, so that even in winter his cheeks were the cheerful red of McIntosh
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