labors, leaned on the shovel, and looked around me at the dawning world. The last clouds that made up the rear guard of the storm were marching away to the northeast. The blizzard was off to punish Nova Scotia next. The wind came up and rustled the loose strips of paper hanging from the birches. Two silent crows bounced along on gusts overhead.
I’d wondered if my tires had sharp-enough studs to claw their way up that hill, but I had no problem getting back on the road.
As I crested the hill, I thought about the snowmobiler who’d played chicken with my Jeep the night before. Who was he? A neighbor of the Spragues out for a midnight ride? Or the man Cates and Sewall had met down in the swamp? I’d need to make a mention of his phosphorescent green sled and snowsuit in my report. I wondered what make and model of snowmobile Barney Beal rode. According to Rivard, the big kid was a drug addict who frequented this area.
I never knew you could sprain muscles shivering, but I was sore in places I rarely had cause to contemplate. As my cheeks and extremities began to warm, they started to throb rhythmically. I touched the tip of my nose. There was a trace of frostbite, but at least I wasn’t going to lose it. If Prester Sewall survived the week, he was going to have a mug like the Phantom of the Opera’s.
God, what a couple of days: from a frozen zebra to two frozen drug dealers.
If you ask police officers what they like best about the job, nine out of ten will probably tell you it’s the surprises. Going on patrol, you honestly never know what you’re going to encounter next: despicable crimes; bloody accidents; cries of despair and rage; displays of the most jaw-dropping perversity; lies so bald-faced, you don’t know whether to laugh or vomit; self-destroying bouts of intoxication; every form of abuse and neglect known to man; but also acts of heroism from the most unexpected quarters; generosity, too; and those simple good deeds that are so important and yet so undervalued in this fucked-up world.
Everywhere, every night: the human comedy showing for your viewing pleasure.
* * *
By the time I got home, dawn had broken and patches of blue showed between the clouds. A titmouse was calling emphatically from the big beech behind the trailer. Peer! Peer! The swaying treetops made moving blue shadows on the snow.
The electric heater had failed again, and no amount of messing with the fuse box was enough to restart it. I’d need to call my landlord in Lubec. In the meantime, I boiled some water on the propane stove and used a hand towel to clean the sweat from my body. It was the least satisfying bath of my life. I’d considered taking a nap before driving into Machias, but with the temperature inside the trailer hovering around the freezing mark, I worried I might never awaken. I shaved, put on my olive-drab uniform, and resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be one of those thirty-six-hour days all wardens experience from time to time.
I dialed the Washington County jail and asked the receptionist if I could speak with Sheriff Rhine.
“The sheriff is having a breakfast meeting with the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency, but she said it would be OK for you go over there.”
“Where’s the meeting?” I pictured coffee and bagels in the district attorney’s office.
“The usual place—McDonald’s.”
What else should I have expected? A disquieting feeling came over me as I recalled Jamie Sewall’s smiling face. Had anyone notified her of her brother’s condition? What if I found her behind the counter?
The plows had barely made a dent in the snowpack. At best, they’d shaved a few inches off the top, sprayed some ineffectual salt brine down to melt the slick spots, and scattered pebbles, which now rattled around my truck’s chassis. The sun had finally emerged from wherever it had been hiding to pour sterile light down on the blinding roadsides. The morning was as white as a
I’d wondered if my tires had sharp-enough studs to claw their way up that hill, but I had no problem getting back on the road.
As I crested the hill, I thought about the snowmobiler who’d played chicken with my Jeep the night before. Who was he? A neighbor of the Spragues out for a midnight ride? Or the man Cates and Sewall had met down in the swamp? I’d need to make a mention of his phosphorescent green sled and snowsuit in my report. I wondered what make and model of snowmobile Barney Beal rode. According to Rivard, the big kid was a drug addict who frequented this area.
I never knew you could sprain muscles shivering, but I was sore in places I rarely had cause to contemplate. As my cheeks and extremities began to warm, they started to throb rhythmically. I touched the tip of my nose. There was a trace of frostbite, but at least I wasn’t going to lose it. If Prester Sewall survived the week, he was going to have a mug like the Phantom of the Opera’s.
God, what a couple of days: from a frozen zebra to two frozen drug dealers.
If you ask police officers what they like best about the job, nine out of ten will probably tell you it’s the surprises. Going on patrol, you honestly never know what you’re going to encounter next: despicable crimes; bloody accidents; cries of despair and rage; displays of the most jaw-dropping perversity; lies so bald-faced, you don’t know whether to laugh or vomit; self-destroying bouts of intoxication; every form of abuse and neglect known to man; but also acts of heroism from the most unexpected quarters; generosity, too; and those simple good deeds that are so important and yet so undervalued in this fucked-up world.
Everywhere, every night: the human comedy showing for your viewing pleasure.
* * *
By the time I got home, dawn had broken and patches of blue showed between the clouds. A titmouse was calling emphatically from the big beech behind the trailer. Peer! Peer! The swaying treetops made moving blue shadows on the snow.
The electric heater had failed again, and no amount of messing with the fuse box was enough to restart it. I’d need to call my landlord in Lubec. In the meantime, I boiled some water on the propane stove and used a hand towel to clean the sweat from my body. It was the least satisfying bath of my life. I’d considered taking a nap before driving into Machias, but with the temperature inside the trailer hovering around the freezing mark, I worried I might never awaken. I shaved, put on my olive-drab uniform, and resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be one of those thirty-six-hour days all wardens experience from time to time.
I dialed the Washington County jail and asked the receptionist if I could speak with Sheriff Rhine.
“The sheriff is having a breakfast meeting with the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency, but she said it would be OK for you go over there.”
“Where’s the meeting?” I pictured coffee and bagels in the district attorney’s office.
“The usual place—McDonald’s.”
What else should I have expected? A disquieting feeling came over me as I recalled Jamie Sewall’s smiling face. Had anyone notified her of her brother’s condition? What if I found her behind the counter?
The plows had barely made a dent in the snowpack. At best, they’d shaved a few inches off the top, sprayed some ineffectual salt brine down to melt the slick spots, and scattered pebbles, which now rattled around my truck’s chassis. The sun had finally emerged from wherever it had been hiding to pour sterile light down on the blinding roadsides. The morning was as white as a
Similar Books
