moved pretty fast for a half-drunk man plodding through thigh-deep snow.
The Spragues’ house was a little chalet with a steeply pitched metal roof, which allowed heavy loads of snow to fall off. The outside lights were all switched on, bathing the scene in an elfin glow. I saw an old Subaru station wagon hiding against the side of the house, out of the wind, and two new-looking Yamaha sleds—his and hers—parked nearby. There were new tire tracks and a wedge-shaped snowbank that indicated a pickup had recently plowed its way out of the dooryard.
By the time I got to the door, Doc was already standing inside, unlooping the scarf from around his whiskered chin.
A squat little woman was standing beside him, looking back at me with an expression of alarm. She had short hair, dyed a sort of maroonish brown. A rosy line of blood vessels ran from one cheek up over the bridge of her nose to the other cheek. She wore a mint-green sweatshirt with a moose on it and jeans with an elastic waistband.
“Doris, this is Mike Bowditch with the Maine Warden Service,” Doc said.
“Thank goodness you’re here!”
“Where’s your visitor?”
“In Joey’s room.”
She led Doc into the back of the house while I struggled to escape my snowshoes. I tried kicking off as much of the powder as I could in the mudroom, but a wet white trail followed me down the hall.
The house didn’t seem dirty so much as unkempt. On the walls hung amateur oil paintings in the style promoted by those learn-to-paint television shows. But they were all crooked. The odor of an uncleaned litter box drifted from some hidden place.
In a boy’s bedroom, Doris Sprague leaned against one wall while Doc bent over a young man stretched on top of a narrow bed. He wore a faded denim jacket with a shearling collar, an untucked flannel shirt, baggy jeans, and motorcycle boots with silver buckles. His wet chestnut hair was plastered over his ears and across his forehead. He might have been handsome once, but now his face was horribly splotched and swollen. Waxy yellow patches of frostbite covered his entire nose and both cheeks. His fingers were bent into steel-gray claws.
“Young man,” said Doc. “Can you hear me?”
He snapped open his eyes. The pupils were the size of dimes. “No.”
“I’m a doctor,” Larrabee said calmly. “I’m going to help you.”
Doc had a pretty good bedside manner, considering his patients were mostly cows and horses.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” I said.
“Ben already did,” said Mrs. Sprague.
“Do you know who this man is?”
“I’m not sure. His face is so…” She hugged herself and shivered, as if the man’s hypothermia were contagious. “His wallet is over on the table. I tried to cover him with a blanket, but he keeps saying he’s hot.”
“Press,” said the man.
“What’s that?” asked Doc. “Press what?”
“Presster,” said the man.
“Is that your last name or your first name?” Doc asked.
I opened the wallet and pulled out the driver’s license. The picture showed a good-looking version of the disfigured face before us. He had high cheekbones and feathered chestnut hair cut like a disco dancer’s from the 1970s.
“His name is John Sewall,” I said.
FEBRUARY 14
It’s snowing wicked hard out tonight. I’m writing this under the covers with the headlamp Aunt Tammi gave me for my birthday.
THIS IS MY LAST WILL & TESTAMENT
I bequeath everything to Ma except my Bruce Lee poster. Give that back to Dad.
And Tammi should get my headlamp, I guess.
I want to be buried at sea or burned like a Viking. Either way is fine.
On my tombstone it should read—
I hear something.
WHISPERING!
It ain’t the wind. That’s a voice speaking. A woman’s voice.
SHE’S HERE!
8
Should I have made the connection between the face on the driver’s license and the incident I’d witnessed at McDonald’s? It’s easy now to say yes. In my defense, I
The Spragues’ house was a little chalet with a steeply pitched metal roof, which allowed heavy loads of snow to fall off. The outside lights were all switched on, bathing the scene in an elfin glow. I saw an old Subaru station wagon hiding against the side of the house, out of the wind, and two new-looking Yamaha sleds—his and hers—parked nearby. There were new tire tracks and a wedge-shaped snowbank that indicated a pickup had recently plowed its way out of the dooryard.
By the time I got to the door, Doc was already standing inside, unlooping the scarf from around his whiskered chin.
A squat little woman was standing beside him, looking back at me with an expression of alarm. She had short hair, dyed a sort of maroonish brown. A rosy line of blood vessels ran from one cheek up over the bridge of her nose to the other cheek. She wore a mint-green sweatshirt with a moose on it and jeans with an elastic waistband.
“Doris, this is Mike Bowditch with the Maine Warden Service,” Doc said.
“Thank goodness you’re here!”
“Where’s your visitor?”
“In Joey’s room.”
She led Doc into the back of the house while I struggled to escape my snowshoes. I tried kicking off as much of the powder as I could in the mudroom, but a wet white trail followed me down the hall.
The house didn’t seem dirty so much as unkempt. On the walls hung amateur oil paintings in the style promoted by those learn-to-paint television shows. But they were all crooked. The odor of an uncleaned litter box drifted from some hidden place.
In a boy’s bedroom, Doris Sprague leaned against one wall while Doc bent over a young man stretched on top of a narrow bed. He wore a faded denim jacket with a shearling collar, an untucked flannel shirt, baggy jeans, and motorcycle boots with silver buckles. His wet chestnut hair was plastered over his ears and across his forehead. He might have been handsome once, but now his face was horribly splotched and swollen. Waxy yellow patches of frostbite covered his entire nose and both cheeks. His fingers were bent into steel-gray claws.
“Young man,” said Doc. “Can you hear me?”
He snapped open his eyes. The pupils were the size of dimes. “No.”
“I’m a doctor,” Larrabee said calmly. “I’m going to help you.”
Doc had a pretty good bedside manner, considering his patients were mostly cows and horses.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” I said.
“Ben already did,” said Mrs. Sprague.
“Do you know who this man is?”
“I’m not sure. His face is so…” She hugged herself and shivered, as if the man’s hypothermia were contagious. “His wallet is over on the table. I tried to cover him with a blanket, but he keeps saying he’s hot.”
“Press,” said the man.
“What’s that?” asked Doc. “Press what?”
“Presster,” said the man.
“Is that your last name or your first name?” Doc asked.
I opened the wallet and pulled out the driver’s license. The picture showed a good-looking version of the disfigured face before us. He had high cheekbones and feathered chestnut hair cut like a disco dancer’s from the 1970s.
“His name is John Sewall,” I said.
FEBRUARY 14
It’s snowing wicked hard out tonight. I’m writing this under the covers with the headlamp Aunt Tammi gave me for my birthday.
THIS IS MY LAST WILL & TESTAMENT
I bequeath everything to Ma except my Bruce Lee poster. Give that back to Dad.
And Tammi should get my headlamp, I guess.
I want to be buried at sea or burned like a Viking. Either way is fine.
On my tombstone it should read—
I hear something.
WHISPERING!
It ain’t the wind. That’s a voice speaking. A woman’s voice.
SHE’S HERE!
8
Should I have made the connection between the face on the driver’s license and the incident I’d witnessed at McDonald’s? It’s easy now to say yes. In my defense, I
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