resurfacing. She’d departed for Brattleboro shortly after finishing her coffee, but what she left behind—which Joe even heard in his mother’s voice afterward—was a suggestion of positive intrigue. Not a bad thing, all other things considered.
The two men swung out of the car and eyed the garage’s bland frontage, buttoned up tight against the cold.
“D’you call ahead?” Joe asked.
Barrows stayed watching the building. “I thought we’d surprise ’em.”
It didn’t take long. In most rural areas, it is less a door knock or a ringing bell that draws attention from inside a building—simply showing up usually does the trick. Sure enough, moments later the wooden door under a hand-lettered sign reading “Office” opened, and a small, narrow man in a soiled baseball cap and a T-shirt stepped partway out.
“Rob,” he said neutrally.
Barrows didn’t move. “Barrie,” he answered loudly enough to carry across the distance.
“How’re ya doin’?”
“Good. You?”
“Great.”
Barrie looked from one of them to the other. Barrows allowed the silence to stretch out, forcing the mechanic to ask, “So, what’s up?”
Only then did the deputy approach the building, Gunther in tow. Rob smiled as he drew near, sticking his hand out in greeting, abruptly offsetting his slightly threatening initial tone. Joe took note of the tactic and didn’t offer to shake.
Rob jerked his thumb in his direction. “Barrie McNeil, this is Joe, from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation.” He and Rob had agreed beforehand to use his last name discreetly, if at all.
For a split second, McNeil froze. Enough time had elapsed since the Bureau’s inception for the initials “VBI” to carry an ominous meaning among those who might have reasons to care.
McNeil forced a small smile. “Just keeping the deputy company?”
Joe looked him straight in the eyes. “No.”
Rob picked up the cue. “So, Barrie, we were wondering. There was a car crash a few days ago—the Subaru on Route Five?”
Barrie was already nodding. “Leo’s car. He all right?”
“He’s a mess. In the hospital. Intensive care.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.” Rob pointed at the doorway Barrie was filling with his slight frame. “You want to let us in?”
McNeil bobbed his head and stepped backward awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Come on in.”
They entered a waiting room of sorts, certainly a room with three mismatched office chairs lining a wall, facing a card table with a pile of ancient and bedraggled magazines strewn across its surface. There were posters hanging about advertising young, semi-clad women holding automotive products, and rows of shelves sagging under stacks of oil filters, brake pads, boxed sparkplugs, and the like. It was all beyond a restorative cleaning, aside from the gleaming spare parts themselves, and all illuminated from a single slightly flickering fluorescent light overhead, whose plastic enclosure showed off the shadows of generations of dead insects. An open door to the side revealed the garage proper and a car with no wheels, perched high atop a lift.
The entire place was uncomfortably hot, explaining how the T-shirted Barrie had so easily loitered within the open doorway without complaint.
“Barrie,” Rob began, strolling around the room, looking at the posters, “tell us about tie rod nuts.”
Barrie hesitated, again nervously switching his attention from one of them to the other.
“They hold the tie rods together?” he guessed.
“Just like that? You screw ’em on and they hold on tight?”
“Pretty much . . . There’s a cotter pin.”
Rob turned to face him, as if responding to a poke in the ribs. “A cotter pin? Why?”
“So it don’t back off. Is that what happened to Leo’s car?”
Rob tilted his head to one side. “Is it?”
Barrie pursed his lips, clearly not wanting to flunk whatever test this was.
“Probably, if it failed. That happens,” he said tentatively.
“A lot?”
“No .
The two men swung out of the car and eyed the garage’s bland frontage, buttoned up tight against the cold.
“D’you call ahead?” Joe asked.
Barrows stayed watching the building. “I thought we’d surprise ’em.”
It didn’t take long. In most rural areas, it is less a door knock or a ringing bell that draws attention from inside a building—simply showing up usually does the trick. Sure enough, moments later the wooden door under a hand-lettered sign reading “Office” opened, and a small, narrow man in a soiled baseball cap and a T-shirt stepped partway out.
“Rob,” he said neutrally.
Barrows didn’t move. “Barrie,” he answered loudly enough to carry across the distance.
“How’re ya doin’?”
“Good. You?”
“Great.”
Barrie looked from one of them to the other. Barrows allowed the silence to stretch out, forcing the mechanic to ask, “So, what’s up?”
Only then did the deputy approach the building, Gunther in tow. Rob smiled as he drew near, sticking his hand out in greeting, abruptly offsetting his slightly threatening initial tone. Joe took note of the tactic and didn’t offer to shake.
Rob jerked his thumb in his direction. “Barrie McNeil, this is Joe, from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation.” He and Rob had agreed beforehand to use his last name discreetly, if at all.
For a split second, McNeil froze. Enough time had elapsed since the Bureau’s inception for the initials “VBI” to carry an ominous meaning among those who might have reasons to care.
McNeil forced a small smile. “Just keeping the deputy company?”
Joe looked him straight in the eyes. “No.”
Rob picked up the cue. “So, Barrie, we were wondering. There was a car crash a few days ago—the Subaru on Route Five?”
Barrie was already nodding. “Leo’s car. He all right?”
“He’s a mess. In the hospital. Intensive care.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.” Rob pointed at the doorway Barrie was filling with his slight frame. “You want to let us in?”
McNeil bobbed his head and stepped backward awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Come on in.”
They entered a waiting room of sorts, certainly a room with three mismatched office chairs lining a wall, facing a card table with a pile of ancient and bedraggled magazines strewn across its surface. There were posters hanging about advertising young, semi-clad women holding automotive products, and rows of shelves sagging under stacks of oil filters, brake pads, boxed sparkplugs, and the like. It was all beyond a restorative cleaning, aside from the gleaming spare parts themselves, and all illuminated from a single slightly flickering fluorescent light overhead, whose plastic enclosure showed off the shadows of generations of dead insects. An open door to the side revealed the garage proper and a car with no wheels, perched high atop a lift.
The entire place was uncomfortably hot, explaining how the T-shirted Barrie had so easily loitered within the open doorway without complaint.
“Barrie,” Rob began, strolling around the room, looking at the posters, “tell us about tie rod nuts.”
Barrie hesitated, again nervously switching his attention from one of them to the other.
“They hold the tie rods together?” he guessed.
“Just like that? You screw ’em on and they hold on tight?”
“Pretty much . . . There’s a cotter pin.”
Rob turned to face him, as if responding to a poke in the ribs. “A cotter pin? Why?”
“So it don’t back off. Is that what happened to Leo’s car?”
Rob tilted his head to one side. “Is it?”
Barrie pursed his lips, clearly not wanting to flunk whatever test this was.
“Probably, if it failed. That happens,” he said tentatively.
“A lot?”
“No .
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