then blinked at the flashing lights of a state-police car across the highway.
Next to the lit-up Dodge cruiser sat another black-and-white, and beside that was a tan county-coroner’s meat wagon. Four men looked up as Heck crossed the wide strip of black pebbly asphalt. He led Emil away from the cars—he always got the dog out of the truck as soon as possible at a search scene and kept him far from car engines; exhaust dulls dogs’ noses.
“Sit,” Heck commanded when they were in a patch of grass upwind from the cars. “Down.” Emil did as instructed, even though he eagerly noted the presence of some four-legged ladies nearby.
“Hey, Trenton,” one of the men called. He was a large man, large all over, not just the belly—food round, not drink round—and his weight pulled hard at the buttons and pockets of his gray uniform. He was holding back two young female Labrador retrievers, who nosed in the dirt.
“Hiya, Charlie.”
“Well, if it ain’t the Cadillac of trackers.” This, from one of the two young troopers standing on the roadside, a man Heck referred to, though not to his face, as “the Boy.” He was a narrow-jawed youngster, six years Heck’s junior in age though fifteen in appearance. Trenton Heck’s idea of dealing with a budget cutback would have been to fire this kid and keep Heck himself on the force at three-quarters salary. But they hadn’t asked his opinion and so the Boy, who though younger had hired on two months before Heck, was still a trooper while Trenton Heck had netted eighty-seven dollars last month carting old washing machines and water softeners to the Hammond Creek dump.
“Hey, Emil,” the Boy said.
Heck nodded to him and waved to the other trooper, who called back a greeting.
Charlie Fennel and Heck walked toward the tan hearse, beside which stood a young man in a pale-green jumpsuit.
“Not much of a search party,” Heck said to Fennel.
The trooper answered that they were lucky to have what they did. “There’s a concert letting out at midnight or so down at the Civic Center. You hear about that?”
“Rock ’n’ roll,” Heck muttered.
“Uhn. Don sent a buncha troopers over there. They had some boy got shot at the last one.”
“Don’t they have security guards for that sort of thing?”
“Was a guard who shot the kid.”
“Doesn’t seem like a brilliant use of taxpayers’ money, riding herd on a bunch of youngsters paying to deafen themselves.”
Then too, Fennel added, the captain had put a good portion of the troops on highway detail. “He figures what with the storm, they’ll be picking ’em off the pavement. Say, I hear there’s a reward for catching this crazy.”
Heck kept his eyes on the grass in front of him and didn’t know what to say.
“Listen,” Fennel continued in a whisper, “I heard about your situation, Trenton. I hope you get that money. I’m rooting for you.”
“Thanks there, Charlie.”
Heck had a curious relationship with Charlie Fennel. The same bullet that had left the shiny star-shaped wound in Heck’s right thigh had passed first through Fennel’s brother’s chest as he crouched beside their patrol car, killing the trooper instantly. Heck supposed that some of the man’s living blood had ridden the slug into his own body and that because of that he and Charlie Fennel were blood brothers, once removed. At times Trenton Heck thought that he and Fennel ought to be closer. The more time the men spent in each other’s company, however, the less they found they had in common. They occasionally talked about a hunting or fishing trip but the plans came to nothing. It was a secret relief to both of them.
Heck and Fennel now paused beside the coroner’s meat wagon. Heck lifted his head and inhaled air fragrant with the decomposition so prominent on damp autumn nights like this. He sniffed the air once more and Fennel looked at him curiously.
“No wood smoke,” Heck said in response.
“Nope. There don’t
Next to the lit-up Dodge cruiser sat another black-and-white, and beside that was a tan county-coroner’s meat wagon. Four men looked up as Heck crossed the wide strip of black pebbly asphalt. He led Emil away from the cars—he always got the dog out of the truck as soon as possible at a search scene and kept him far from car engines; exhaust dulls dogs’ noses.
“Sit,” Heck commanded when they were in a patch of grass upwind from the cars. “Down.” Emil did as instructed, even though he eagerly noted the presence of some four-legged ladies nearby.
“Hey, Trenton,” one of the men called. He was a large man, large all over, not just the belly—food round, not drink round—and his weight pulled hard at the buttons and pockets of his gray uniform. He was holding back two young female Labrador retrievers, who nosed in the dirt.
“Hiya, Charlie.”
“Well, if it ain’t the Cadillac of trackers.” This, from one of the two young troopers standing on the roadside, a man Heck referred to, though not to his face, as “the Boy.” He was a narrow-jawed youngster, six years Heck’s junior in age though fifteen in appearance. Trenton Heck’s idea of dealing with a budget cutback would have been to fire this kid and keep Heck himself on the force at three-quarters salary. But they hadn’t asked his opinion and so the Boy, who though younger had hired on two months before Heck, was still a trooper while Trenton Heck had netted eighty-seven dollars last month carting old washing machines and water softeners to the Hammond Creek dump.
“Hey, Emil,” the Boy said.
Heck nodded to him and waved to the other trooper, who called back a greeting.
Charlie Fennel and Heck walked toward the tan hearse, beside which stood a young man in a pale-green jumpsuit.
“Not much of a search party,” Heck said to Fennel.
The trooper answered that they were lucky to have what they did. “There’s a concert letting out at midnight or so down at the Civic Center. You hear about that?”
“Rock ’n’ roll,” Heck muttered.
“Uhn. Don sent a buncha troopers over there. They had some boy got shot at the last one.”
“Don’t they have security guards for that sort of thing?”
“Was a guard who shot the kid.”
“Doesn’t seem like a brilliant use of taxpayers’ money, riding herd on a bunch of youngsters paying to deafen themselves.”
Then too, Fennel added, the captain had put a good portion of the troops on highway detail. “He figures what with the storm, they’ll be picking ’em off the pavement. Say, I hear there’s a reward for catching this crazy.”
Heck kept his eyes on the grass in front of him and didn’t know what to say.
“Listen,” Fennel continued in a whisper, “I heard about your situation, Trenton. I hope you get that money. I’m rooting for you.”
“Thanks there, Charlie.”
Heck had a curious relationship with Charlie Fennel. The same bullet that had left the shiny star-shaped wound in Heck’s right thigh had passed first through Fennel’s brother’s chest as he crouched beside their patrol car, killing the trooper instantly. Heck supposed that some of the man’s living blood had ridden the slug into his own body and that because of that he and Charlie Fennel were blood brothers, once removed. At times Trenton Heck thought that he and Fennel ought to be closer. The more time the men spent in each other’s company, however, the less they found they had in common. They occasionally talked about a hunting or fishing trip but the plans came to nothing. It was a secret relief to both of them.
Heck and Fennel now paused beside the coroner’s meat wagon. Heck lifted his head and inhaled air fragrant with the decomposition so prominent on damp autumn nights like this. He sniffed the air once more and Fennel looked at him curiously.
“No wood smoke,” Heck said in response.
“Nope. There don’t
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