Start with Chapter 1
CHAPTER 2
January 7, 1979
Lieutenant Dean Wallace turned off Route 23 and onto the driveway that led to the Pratt farm. A gravel driveway that Cole, the youngest Pratt son, had simply driven back and forth in a truck on to crush the foot of snow. The barn, which had been re-painted a cherry red the past summer, stood at the edge of the property as a signpost of civilization. The house, a white three-story built in 1902, was almost lost in the drifts of snow that receded backward to the tree line, three hundred yards away.
The Chevy Nova bounced over the uneven gravel. Dean’s keys jingled against the dashboard and his coat scratched against the leather seat. The snapping sound of the turn signal clicked off. The radio cracked and spit, so Dean twisted the volume knob to low.
The Pratt’s two Ford trucks were parked haphazardly near the house, and as he pulled into what seemed like a reasonable spot, Dot ran up to the car, her tongue hanging out. Dean put the car in park, turned off the engine, and opened the door. The cold rushed inward and slapped his face. The air had the sterile smell that only temperatures in the single digits or lower seemed to bring.
Dot jumped up and put her paws on Dean’s chest, tapping Dean’s name tag and the police logo.
“Hey, girl, good to see you. It’s been a long time.” He petted her head, scratching just below her jaw and toward the back, where she liked it. “Let me get my hat.” He reached into the car and pulled out his campaign hat and pulled it on his head. When he looked up, Cole, his ex-wife’s youngest brother, stood on the porch.
Cole looked the least like the male side of the family. Blond and skinny and tall, he stood a head taller than Dean, which meant a good foot and half taller than his father or brothers. A senior at Zion High School, Cole was a star of the Panthers basketball team. The boy raised his hand and waved before opening the screen door, peering inside, and stepping back out on the porch. “It’s cold. Get inside.”
Dean smiled. “If I go in now, I won’t want to go out there.” He pointed to the woods beyond the barn and the field.
The Pratt’s farmed two hundred acres along the U.S. and Canadian border. According to Wayne, the eldest living Pratt, the farm had been in the family since the 1820s, when Elias Pratt bought two acres after working for three years in the slums of New York City. Dean had listened over the years to Wayne rattle on about the founding of the Pratt farm as if it were some mythological tale equivalent to the Olympians many times.
Wayne stepped out onto the porch. He was bundled up in a heavy, navy coat trimmed with a faux sheepskin tan fur and a John Deere knit cap. He waved and nodded his head, which Cole took as the command to go back inside. Wayne was archetypal for the Pratt male line: dark, nearly black hair, strong cleft chin, average height, and stocky with a five-o’clock shadow that was a several days’ growth for many men. He wore a pair of fur-lined, black boots. He walked down the two steps and onto the small path of pounded snow to Dean’s car. He held out his hand. “Good to see you, Dean. Sorry to trouble you on a Saturday.”
“Good to see you. And no worries.” Dean gripped his former father-in-law’s hand and shook once. “It’s damned cold.”
Wayne nodded and breathed out, which condensed and the wind carried to the side and upward. “Is anyone else coming?”
“No. You weren’t clear why you needed me out, other than I needed to be out here. Do we need someone?”
“Yeah. Yes. You’ll need someone. Probably several.”
“What’s up?”
“Dot found a body.”
* * *
After Dean called the station to have them send out a couple of officers and the coroner, Wayne led him behind the barn and back toward the tree line. Dot bounded alongside them, kicking up the snow in fine bursts of powder that were caught in the gusts of wind and carried easterly into the snow-covered field where last year the Pratts had grown potatoes and winter and summer squash.
Dean walked beside Wayne despite not having the proper footwear. He cursed himself for not thinking ahead. He also regretted not accepting Cole’s offer and stepping inside to warm himself with a coffee. He refrained from pulling out the flask in his coat’s inside right pocket. Wayne was no teetotaler, but he had always frowned on Dean’s drinking.
The older man walked at a fast clip, and Dean kept pace, but they both kept their heads down until they reached the woods, their gloved hands buried in their coat pockets.
“Those are mine and Dot’s.” Wayne pointed to a trail of dog and human footprints leading through the trees, both to and from. “Dot came home a while ago and was spinning in circles. She didn’t want to play. She didn’t want to eat. She kept running out this way, so I let her lead. I hadn’t seen her so insistent except when I hold her back from retrieving ducks. I followed her, and she led me to a body. So we came back, and I called the station.”
“Did you recognize it?”
“Nope, but I can’t say I looked at it too long.”
“You found it this morning.”
“Yep.”
They followed the trail back for about fifteen minutes, walking among the stands of leafless maple, black ash, elm, and green and heavy with snow spruces and firs. The sun had begun to burn through the clouds and was a bright aura in the sky. Despite its presence, it seemed unlikely to alter the bitter cold. Rather, the sun seemed a taunt of its denied potential.
Eventually, they reached a small clearing. The trail ended in a swirl of Dot’s prints from when she had discovered the body and after leading Wayne here. Wayne’s steps were singular. They paused about where they were standing now—ten yards or so—made a one-eighty, and headed back to the house.
The body—a man—leaned against a large chestnut oak as if he had sat down to rest. A dark, hardened splotch fell on the right shoulder of the thick gray overcoat. The man’s right arm rested along his side. His left hand laid on his stomach, as if he had reached for the wound in his head, stopped, and then relaxed. A pool of black, frozen blood had created a depression in the snow at the base of the tree.
Animals had gotten to him before he froze too much. Crows or some bird had gotten the eyes, leaving two dark recesses staring upward at the empty space above the trees. Probably a fox or coyote had gnawed on the face and neck. The coat—tufts of white lining poking through—and jeans were shredded and torn in places. Dried flecks of frozen blood clung to the tips of the threads where the animals had made their attempts.
“You can head back, Wayne. I’ll take it from here. If you can, when the officer and coroner arrive, send them back this way. You’ll need to answer some questions, too.”
Wayne nodded.
“Make sure they know they have a hike.”
“Sure.”
