“We were just talking about some of Charley Stevens’s escapades,” Lauren said.
“Those could fill a book.” Pulsifer filled a glass of water from the sink and drank it down in one gulp, then did it all over again. “You used to be able to get away with a lot more in the old days.” His voice sounded parched. “There was one state cop—I won’t say who—who had three women he used to visit while their husbands were at work at the same mill. All three husbands worked different shifts, so there was always one open bed.”
“That’s not funny, Gary,” Lauren said.
He hadn’t yet made eye contact with me. “When I started, no one ever knew where I was or what I was doing. As long as I kept my picture out of the paper and wrote my quota of tickets, the colonel didn’t care.”
“It’s a brand-new day,” I said.
“And a cold one, too,” said Lauren. “Thermometer read five below this morning, and the wind’s out of the northwest. It must be one of those Alberta clippers the weathermen always go on about.”
I hadn’t yet decided what I was going to do. On my way south, I could stop at the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department and see how the examination of Adam’s truck was coming along. Maybe I’d run into Clegg there, and I could tell him about the handgun the missing felon had taken from his mother’s apartment.
“I should probably get on the road,” I told my hosts.
Pulsifer put an apple in his pocket for later. “I’ll show you around the farm before you go.”
“I just need to grab my duffel.”
The dogs followed me into the chilly guest room and then decided it was too cold for them, leaving me alone to strip the bed. I piled the sheets, blanket, and quilt at the bottom of the bed and sat down on the bare mattress.
I suspected that Pulsifer’s “tour of the farm” would be an excuse to talk about the previous evening. I dreaded the conversation on all sorts of levels. Would he be contrite, or would he make excuses? Did he blame me for leading him into temptation, or had he decided I was going to be his secret new drinking buddy?
I braced myself for the possibilities and started for the door.
Pulsifer was waiting for me in the mudroom with a displeased expression that confirmed my forebodings.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I just got off the phone with Jim Clegg.”
“Did they find any new evidence in the truck?”
“Too soon for that. Clegg and Shaylene Hawken are headed out to Pariahville this morning. In light of recent events, they want to have a chat with Foss and his flock of deviants. Clegg also reminded me that he still has a shitload of questions for you. I made the mistake of saying you were here. My head’s a little fuzzy this morning.”
“Should I follow you?”
“We’ll take my truck. You and I need to talk.”
22
In the mountains, in the winter, dawn comes late and dusk comes early. The sun hadn’t yet made its way above the Bigelow Range, but the sky had turned the color of rose gold: a promise of light and warmth to come.
Pulsifer didn’t speak as we brushed the snow off the hood and windows of his patrol truck with our gloved hands. When we were finished, I pried open the passenger door of my Scout. I unlocked the glove compartment, removed my Walther .380, and tucked the weapon inside the waistband of my jeans. An image of Carrie Michaud wielding a knife flashed through my mind. I dropped a couple of extra magazines in my pockets.
Pulsifer was behind the wheel with the engine running by the time I returned. He had turned up the police radio, as if to forestall our inevitable conversation. I had no intention of being the first to speak.
The plows had done expert work clearing the road into Bigelow, not that the locals were ever slowed down by a little snow. Just about everyone in the mountains seemed to own a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Those who didn’t soon discovered how long the wait could be for AAA to come and pull you out of a ditch.
“I want to show you something,” Pulsifer said suddenly.
I had expected he meant that he wanted to take me somewhere nearby.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and removed what looked like a foreign coin. He held it flat on his palm for me to look at. It seemed to be made out of bronze and was stamped with a triangle with the Roman numeral III at the center. There was a different word on each side of the triangle—Unity, Service, and Recovery—and around the perimeter there was a motto: To Thine Own Self Be True.
“Three years, four months, and twenty-seven days sober,” he said. “Before last night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re not to blame. It’s all on me.”
From the tone of his voice, it certainly sounded like he was blaming me.
“Gary, I had no idea.”
“That’s why they call it Alcoholics Anonymous. Oh, well.” He pushed the window button on the door so that it went all the way down. Then he threw the coin out onto the icy road. “Just a piece of metal.”