Love You More: A Novel

I’d returned to Officer Fiske’s police cruiser. Hands shackled at my waist, but legs still free. He seemed to have forgotten that detail, and I didn’t feel compelled to remind him. I sat in the back, working on keeping my body language perfectly still, nonthreatening.

Both doors were open, his and mine. I needed air, I’d told him. I felt sick, like I might vomit. Officer Fiske had given me a look, but had consented, even helped unzip the heavy BPD coat that pinned my arms to my torso.

Now, he sat in the front seat, obviously frustrated and bored. People became cops because they wanted to play ball, not sit on the bench. But here he was, relegated to listening to the game in the distance. The echoing whines of the search dogs, the faint hum of voices in the woods.

“Drew the short straw,” I commented.

Officer Fiske kept his eyes straight ahead.

“Ever done a cadaver recovery?”

He refused to speak; no consorting with the enemy.

“I did a couple,” I continued. “Meticulous work, holding the line. Inch by inch, foot by foot, clearing each area of the grid before moving to the next, then moving to the next. Rescue work is better. I got called up to help locate a three-year-old boy lost by Walden’s Pond. A pair of volunteers finally found him. Unbelievable moment. Everyone cried, except the boy. He just wanted another chocolate bar.”

Officer Fiske still didn’t say anything.

I shifted on the hard plastic bench, straining my ears. Did I hear it yet? Not yet.

“Got kids?” I asked.

“Shut up,” Officer Fiske growled.

“Wrong strategy,” I informed him. “As long as you’re stuck with me, you should engage in conversation. Maybe you’re the lucky one who will finally earn my trust. Next thing you know, I’ll confide to you what actually happened to my husband and child, turning you into an overnight hero. Something to think about.”

Officer Fiske finally looked at me.

“I hope they bring back the death penalty, just for you,” he said.

I smiled at him. “Then you’re an idiot, because death, at this point, would be the easy way out.”

He twisted around till he was staring out the front of the parked cruiser, falling silent once more.

I started humming. Couldn’t help myself. Bad Tessa rising.

“All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.”

“Shut up,” Officer Fiske snapped again.

Then we both heard it: The sudden excited barks of a dog catching scent. The cry of the handler, the corresponding rush of the search team, closing in on target. Officer Fiske sat up straighter, leaned over the steering wheel.

I could feel his tension, the barely repressed urge to abandon the cruiser and join the fray.

“You should thank me,” I said from the back.

“Shut up.”

The dog, barking even louder now, honing in. I could picture Quizo’s path, across the small clearing, circling the gentle rise of snow. The fallen tree had created a natural hollow, filled with lighter, fluffier flakes, not too big, not too small. I’d been staggering under the weight of my burden by the time I’d found it, literally swaying on my feet from exhaustion.

Setting down the body. Taking out the collapsible shovel strapped around my waist. My gloved hands shaking as I snapped the pieces of handle together. My back aching as I bent over, punching my way through the thin outer layer of ice to the softer snow underneath. Digging, digging, digging. My breath in short, frosty pants. The hot tears that froze almost instantaneously on my cheeks.

As I carved out the hollow, then gently placed the body inside. Moving slower now as I replaced scoop after scoop of snow, then carefully patted it all back into place.

Twenty-three scoops of snow to bury a grown man. Not nearly so many for this precious cargo.

“You should thank me,” I said again, slowly sitting up straight, uncoiling my body. Bad Tessa rising.

Dog was on it. Quizo had done his job and was letting his handler know it with his sustained bark.

Let him go play with his friends, I thought, tense now in spite of myself. Reward the dog. Take him away to Kelli and Skyler. Please.

Officer Fiske was finally staring at me.

“What’s your problem?” he asked crossly.

“What’s your problem? After all, I’m the one who just saved your life.”

“Saved my life? What the hell—”

Then, staring at my impassive face, he finally connected the dots.

Officer Fiske jumped from the car. Officer Fiske scrambled for the radio on his duty belt. Officer Fiske turned his back to me.

What can I tell you? Mistakes in this business are costly.

I sprang from the rear of the cruiser, fisted both of my shackled hands together and cracked him over the skull. Officer Fiske stumbled forward. I got my arms over his head, around his neck, and yanked hard.

Officer Fiske gasped, made a funny rattling hum, which come to think of it was a lot like CO Kim Watters. Or maybe Brian, dying on the spotless kitchen floor.

I am not sane. That was my last thought. I can’t possibly be sane anymore.

Officer Fiske’s knees buckled. We both went down, while a quarter mile ahead, the snow blew up and screams split the sky and the first dog began to howl.