Read Online Cover of Snow by Jenny Milchman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jenny Milchman
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gray shadow between the remaining flakes.
And suddenly I decided.
The sixteenth. Even without the amber bottle to look at, that date was stamped in my head. Brendan had been working late all week, shifts running over.
I would go to the station. To Brendanâs other home and familyâClub Mitchell, and the men who might have been with him when this prescription was filled.
Making a turn onto Water Street, I drove out of town.
Hidden
Officer Tim Lurcquer looked on while Mitchell dragged the body.
No, he didnât drag it. He lifted it by the armpits, then skated it lightly over the top layer of snow. A hundred and eighty pounds of literal dead weight, give or take, and Mitchell moved it as easily as if he were hoisting a fishing pole. The composite, lightweight kind.
Tim grimaced.
He craned his head to look up at the snow sky, a solid fleet of clouds. Mitchell was now circling the enormous, mottled boulder, a stone whose surface resembled faces. The faces changed all the time, depending upon the degree of light, how much lichen grew. In Timâs younger days, the faces had seemed benign. He and his buddies had broken beer bottles against a grinning lip of stone, made jokes about protruding noses. But for some time now the faces trapped in the rock all seemed to be scowling.
It was brutally cold out, with occasional harsh blasts of wind that penetrated even the thickest coat, like the hidden, deep cells of a lake you swam out to in summer, sudden reminders that warmth wasnât ever the true condition of the north woods.
Tim had been born to it, but heâd never get used to it. He pulled the earflaps on his hat a bit lower. No uniforms today. Chiefâs orders.
No grays today, boys. Street clothes. I donât want anybody recognizing you.
No oneâs even gonna see us, Chief,
Mitchell had said.
The Chief had also made it clear that Mitchell was in charge, with Tim assisting.
Tim didnât object. If this had been his job, the brute force required wouldâve made him look bad. But itâd be the psychological weight of the task he really wouldâve struggled with.
âLurcquer?â Mitchell grunted, the only sign heâd shown of exertion. âYou mind?â
Tim looked around. What was he supposed to be doing?
He always felt like this, two steps behind, while the others were like some rarefied elite. The damned starting lineup on the varsity hockey team. Heâd played, of course, but he hadnât started. Even Gilâwho they all called the rookie, because heâd only recently joined the force after getting back from the serviceâhad it over Tim. Back in high school, Gil had spent more time in the box than on the ice, the enforcer who broke opponentsâ teeth and bones.
Brendan hadnât played, but off the ice he wasnât as bad as the others. Brendan had been a good-natured sort, full of fun, ideas for what to do when their shifts were over. Heâd smashed his share of bottles. Itâd been Brendan who started the annual polar bear dunk for the cops. And once in a while heâd ask Tim to ride along with him and Club, and theyâd spend most of the shift laughing and complaining about the job.
There were also the times when Brendan went solo or stayed behind in the barracks. Itâd always baffled Tim how much the Chief seemed to love Brendan, given what a slacker the guy could be. He was a good cop though; he really cared about people. Tim didnât want to speak ill of the dead. Maybe Brendan wasnât slacking after all, just didnât want to be quite as close to things, this deep in the muck.
Tim could relate to that.
âLook at the hole,â Mitchell grunted again. He supported his burden with one hand, pointing with the other.
Tim turned around on the patch of recently dug-up earth, his boots packing down new snow. Now he saw. Snow had already partially filled in the trench.
He used both hands to fiddle with the
And suddenly I decided.
The sixteenth. Even without the amber bottle to look at, that date was stamped in my head. Brendan had been working late all week, shifts running over.
I would go to the station. To Brendanâs other home and familyâClub Mitchell, and the men who might have been with him when this prescription was filled.
Making a turn onto Water Street, I drove out of town.
Hidden
Officer Tim Lurcquer looked on while Mitchell dragged the body.
No, he didnât drag it. He lifted it by the armpits, then skated it lightly over the top layer of snow. A hundred and eighty pounds of literal dead weight, give or take, and Mitchell moved it as easily as if he were hoisting a fishing pole. The composite, lightweight kind.
Tim grimaced.
He craned his head to look up at the snow sky, a solid fleet of clouds. Mitchell was now circling the enormous, mottled boulder, a stone whose surface resembled faces. The faces changed all the time, depending upon the degree of light, how much lichen grew. In Timâs younger days, the faces had seemed benign. He and his buddies had broken beer bottles against a grinning lip of stone, made jokes about protruding noses. But for some time now the faces trapped in the rock all seemed to be scowling.
It was brutally cold out, with occasional harsh blasts of wind that penetrated even the thickest coat, like the hidden, deep cells of a lake you swam out to in summer, sudden reminders that warmth wasnât ever the true condition of the north woods.
Tim had been born to it, but heâd never get used to it. He pulled the earflaps on his hat a bit lower. No uniforms today. Chiefâs orders.
No grays today, boys. Street clothes. I donât want anybody recognizing you.
No oneâs even gonna see us, Chief,
Mitchell had said.
The Chief had also made it clear that Mitchell was in charge, with Tim assisting.
Tim didnât object. If this had been his job, the brute force required wouldâve made him look bad. But itâd be the psychological weight of the task he really wouldâve struggled with.
âLurcquer?â Mitchell grunted, the only sign heâd shown of exertion. âYou mind?â
Tim looked around. What was he supposed to be doing?
He always felt like this, two steps behind, while the others were like some rarefied elite. The damned starting lineup on the varsity hockey team. Heâd played, of course, but he hadnât started. Even Gilâwho they all called the rookie, because heâd only recently joined the force after getting back from the serviceâhad it over Tim. Back in high school, Gil had spent more time in the box than on the ice, the enforcer who broke opponentsâ teeth and bones.
Brendan hadnât played, but off the ice he wasnât as bad as the others. Brendan had been a good-natured sort, full of fun, ideas for what to do when their shifts were over. Heâd smashed his share of bottles. Itâd been Brendan who started the annual polar bear dunk for the cops. And once in a while heâd ask Tim to ride along with him and Club, and theyâd spend most of the shift laughing and complaining about the job.
There were also the times when Brendan went solo or stayed behind in the barracks. Itâd always baffled Tim how much the Chief seemed to love Brendan, given what a slacker the guy could be. He was a good cop though; he really cared about people. Tim didnât want to speak ill of the dead. Maybe Brendan wasnât slacking after all, just didnât want to be quite as close to things, this deep in the muck.
Tim could relate to that.
âLook at the hole,â Mitchell grunted again. He supported his burden with one hand, pointing with the other.
Tim turned around on the patch of recently dug-up earth, his boots packing down new snow. Now he saw. Snow had already partially filled in the trench.
He used both hands to fiddle with the
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