The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel)

by Loreth Anne White

  Nausea pushed up into Adam’s throat. He had to stand abruptly to prevent himself from throwing up.

  “What happened to the medallion?” he said coldly.

  She rubbed her temple, moistened her lips, then a flicker of brightness sparked through her eyes. “Yes,” she said. Then her face collapsed again in a wash of sadness and lost memories as she disappeared into herself once more, somewhere in the past.

  Adam went to the windows, watched the birds pecking through the dead leaves. Sometimes, when parents didn’t find what they were looking for in their child, they planted seeds for what they’d like to grow there instead. They tried to create in their children the lives they themselves missed. His mother had been trying to turn him into his father.

  Rachel’s words washed into his mind. Why did you become a cop, sir? Did you once believe in the law, in justice?

  “Rafe?”

  He jumped, spun round.

  “Is that you? Where have you been?”

  “Rafe is gone, Mom. It’s me, Adam. Your son.”

  “Adam?” An odd expression twisted her features. “Bring me that box from my bedroom, won’t you? The one with the seashells on the top. My windup jewelry box. It’s on my dresser.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  “Please, Rafe, just bring it.”

  Adam went to the room, found the box, and came back. He handed it to his mother.

  She opened it slowly and a little ballerina popped up from her spring on her pedestal. Music tinkled and the ballerina started to spiral in front the mirror inside. The interior of the box was lined with velvety red cloth, and it was filled with silver and gold jewelry and other trinkets. His mother suddenly seemed like a little girl again as she sifted through the contents. She removed a small, flat gold medallion from among the contents. It had a filigree edge, like golden lace. She offered it to Adam, hand shaking slightly.

  His heart stopped as a blade of recognition sliced through him. He met her eyes. She was looking at him, into him.

  It was Merilee Zukanov’s pendant.

  A Saint Christopher traditionally worn by travelers to keep them safe. It had not kept Merilee Zukanov safe at all.

  Slowly Adam reached out, took it from her. It lay flat on his palm.

  “You took it?” he whispered. “From my drawer.”

  Silence.

  All these years he’d thought Luke had taken it. He thought Luke had erased the GPS route in his Jeep. All these years he’d hoped it had been a coincidence that the hoodie found bloodied in Jeb Cullen’s car had matched the hoodie that Luke had arrived home in during the early hours of that fateful day.

  Tears filled his mother’s pale-blue eyes.

  Adam stared at her.

  “Are you going to make tea, Rafe? I’d love some tea with one of those ginger snaps.”

  Adam went into the bathroom, pocketed the medallion, and threw up. He ran the tap water until it was ice-cold, and he rinsed his face, stopping as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. For a split second he saw his father. Likeness lies in wait, he thought. And now that he was the same age his father was when he was killed, he could see the man in his own face.

  He remembered the night they’d received the news of his dad’s death, the look on his mother’s face. He’d been eight years old. Luke had been only five. Almost the same ages that his and Lily’s boys—Tyler and Mikey—were now.

  His mother had tried to protect her sons.

  How far would he go to protect his own sons?

  The things that were done for love. For family. How wrong it could all go.

  His mother had left the RCMP to take the top cop job here in Snowy Creek, where she believed it might be safer, easier, to raise her boys alone. Adam remembered his mother’s pride in becoming the first woman to hold down the chief position with the Snowy Creek PD. But later that night he’d heard her crying in her room. He’d opened the door to find her holding a framed photo of his dad. She had been furious with him for finding her in that state.

  He gripped the sink with both hands, hung his head down.

  He’d also left the RCMP to come raise his boys here. To make Lily happy.

  Why did you become a cop, Adam . . . Was it because you believed once in justice, the law . . .

  He dried his face and went into the kitchen, where he made tea and put shortbread cookies on a plate because he could find no gingersnaps.

  He sat with his mother while she sipped from her cup, and he wiped her mouth. Because of the stroke she dribbled when she ate or drank. His mom had always taken care of him and his brother. Now here he was taking care of her. And he was looking after his wife. His world was crumbling around him.

  He waited for Rubella to return. Then he went back to his truck and put on his music—old Jamaican ska. He inhaled deeply. His alter ego had wanted to visit Jamaica. As a kid, instead of snowboarding, he’d wanted to surf in the warm sun. It was why he’d stuck a Hawaiian surf sticker on the back of his Jeep all those years ago, after a visit to the islands.

  He had a choice to make.

  His mother was gone, inside her own head.

  His brother was gone.

  His choice could not hurt them.

  Why did you become a cop . . .

  He had become a cop because his parents were cops, because they had both wanted their sons to be cops. They’d planted the seed in him. They’d watered that seed with tales of the legendary Sam Steele of the North West Mounted Police. A quintessential Victorian, imperial hero, a big barrel-chested bear of a man with a grand, sweeping mustache who cleaned up the gold rush saloons, brothels, and gambling dens of the wild Pacific Northwest, who kept the American whiskey traders at bay.

  Adam had believed in justice, retribution. The law. Childishly so.

  Until that night the girls had gone missing.

  Until he had turned a quiet blind eye and everything turned subtle shades of gray.

  He’d thought the grayness was part of becoming an adult, seeing life for what it truly was in all its tricky nuances. But then had come the conviction and incarceration of an innocent man. Adam knew his inaction had been key to that conviction. He was as guilty as the rest who had perjured themselves. And he knew deep down they had. Now he was back here. Snowy Creek. With sons of his own. Full circle. To face the role he had played in his own mother’s and brother’s criminal actions all those years ago. To face his own guilt.

  Adam reached for his phone. Dialed.

  She answered on the third ring, sounding breathless.

  “I need to see you this evening,” he said. “I just . . . need to be with you, talk to you. Can I come round?”

  She laughed and whispered dirty things in his ear. Her voice was a salve. She was his addiction. She was the reason he coped with Lily, with being in Snowy Creek, with everything.

  Adam hung up, started the engine. This was the beginning of the end. He had to do this. And he would do it for his sons.

  Annie drove up the rutted driveway to the Rudiger house.

  “Check that out,” she said to Novak with a tilt of her head as they passed a wash line full of laundry. “Black toque. Black men’s sweater. Black jeans.”

  Round the side of the house, a blue truck was parked.

  “See if you can take a look at that truck while I speak to the occupants.”

  Annie went up the steps to the front door, knocked while Novak ambled round the side of the house.

  A plumpish woman opened the door, cheeks flushed. She had a white apron on, flour on her hands.

  “Beppie Rudiger?” Annie said. “I’m Constable Pirello, with the Snowy Creek PD.”

  “What is it?” The woman’s gaze shot immediately toward a shed down the yard. Annie turned, following her gaze. She waited a beat, then said. “Is your husband home, Mrs. Rudiger?”r />
  “No. He . . . he’s out. Why?”

  “He’s not in that shed?”

  “No.”

  “Is that his truck round the side?”

  Something hot flickered through the woman’s face. A blonde child appeared at her side. “Susie, go inside,” Beppie Rudiger said as she stepped out, closing the door behind her. “It’s my truck. Clint drives a Dodge Ram. Red.”

  “He take the Dodge Ram to work on Wednesday?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Your truck matches the description of a vehicle that was placed at an arson scene, ma’am.”

  Blood drained from her cheeks. She swallowed, looking nervous.

  “Did your husband perhaps borrow your vehicle Wednesday?”

  Beppie reached for the banister on the side of the stairs. “I . . . I don’t recall. You’d need to speak to him.”

  Annie nodded, holding the woman’s eyes. Novak meanwhile popped back from around the side and Beppie Rudiger jerked in surprise.

  “Plate has a D,” Novak called up to Annie.

  “Do you mind if we take a look inside the truck, Mrs. Rudiger?”

  “Yes, I do mind. I don’t like the insinuation here. I . . . I’d like for you both to leave. Now.”

  Annie turned her back on Beppie and made a show of taking in the landscape. “Nice place. Rural. I also grew up on a farm, in Quebec. My mother liked to air-dry the laundry, too.” She turned back to face Beppie. The woman looked ill suddenly. “When did you last do a wash, Mrs. Rudiger?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Black toque,” Annie said with a nod toward the washing line.

  “It’s getting cold,” Beppie snapped. “People wear toques when it’s cold.”

  Annie’s pulse quickened slightly at the woman’s reaction. They were on to something here, she was sure of it.

  “What’s in the shed down there ma’am?”

  “That’s my husband’s shed. It’s where he does his taxidermy.”

  Annie raised a brow. “Taxidermy? He likes to hunt?”

  “Goes on two long hunts a year. We store the meat in the freezer down there.”

  “Might we take a look?”

  “No.” She wiped her hands on her apron suddenly, as if they were sweating. “I mean, it’s Clint’s space. Not for me to say who goes in there. Look, if you want my husband, you can get him at the fire hall. He’s the fire chief in Snowy Creek.”

  Annie nodded again and smiled broadly. “It’s his day off today, I believe.”

  Beppie said nothing.

  “You sure he’s not around? Out back maybe?”

  “He’s getting hay from one of the farms down valley. For winterizing the garden.”

  “He keep his hunting weapons in that shed?”

  “In a safe. In the house.”

  “Rifles, shotguns?”

  Beppie’s mouth formed a tight line. “That’s what he hunts with.”

  “Any handguns in there?”

  She swallowed. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Rudiger.” Annie started down the stairs to join Novak, but stopped halfway down and turned around once more to face Beppie Rudiger.

  “Your husband was discharged from the army, is that correct?”

  “He left the army to spend more time with his family.”

  “Dishonorable discharge, right?”

  Beppie Rudiger went even whiter. The wind ruffled her curls.

  “Something to do with a sexual assault allegation,” Annie said, “but it was later dropped?”

  Silence.

  “Where was your husband April ninth, ma’am?”

  Beppie opened her mouth. Then closed it again.

  “I know, six months ago is a long time to recall something specific like that. No worries. We’ll ask him when we connect with him.”

  “Religious,” Annie murmured quietly as she walked with Novak back to the cruiser. “Crucifix around her neck.”

  “Doesn’t mean she’s religious.”

  “Good chance it does.” She opened the door. Beppie was still standing sentry at the top of the steps, watching them.

  As they exited the driveway and turned down the farm road, Novak said, “Shit, I’m thinking there might actually be something to Cullen’s claims.”

  Annie snorted, stealing a glance up at the sheer rock slopes and avalanche chutes of Mount Currie as she drove. It was not far from here that her sister had gone missing. “Cat among the proverbial pigeons,” she said softly.

  “What?”

  “I said, Cullen is like a cat put in among the pigeons.”

  Novak stared blankly.

  “You know; scattering everyone, getting them running scared. Jesus, Novak, where’d they find you, anyways?”

  He was silent awhile. “Can I ask you something, smart-ass?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you think Chief Mackin put you and me on this case? I mean, look at us, nosing around the head honchos in town when there is already an official investigation into the arson.”

  She glanced at him.

  “You’re brand-new. Easy scapegoat if this all goes to hell. Me? I’m up for retirement next year. If this goes to shit, Mackin sends me out to pasture early and he kicks your ass right out of the valley. He tells the police board you were a loose fucking cannon. He claims he didn’t even know we were sniffing around the case. However this shit hits the fan, Mackin has his ass covered all ways to Sunday.”

  Annie swallowed.

  “So, yeah, who’s the smart-ass, now?” Novak said, removing a half-eaten Snickers bar from his pocket.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Rachel?” Kerrigan jerks her head up as I enter her office. She gets up and quickly closes the door behind me.

  “Guess I’m not that welcome here, huh?”

  “I’m sorry, Rach, but that stunt at the Shady Lady has everyone here kinda steamed.”

  “Stunt?”

  “You know what I mean. It’s . . . your paper that gave him a voice, okay? He accused our chief of perjury. You know how things work among first responders, We’re tight, have each other’s backs.” Kerrigan looks as though she wants to say more but bites her tongue. “What can I do for you?”

  I inhale deeply and decide to just go for it. “Before Amy Findlay shot herself, she called the fire hall.”

  “She did?”

  “This number here.” I push the piece of paper on which I’ve written the number toward Kerrigan. “Do you know whose extension that is?”

  She looks up, meets my eyes. Silence hangs for a moment.

  “Look, Kerri, you know me. I don’t want trouble any more than anyone else does, but a man’s life is at stake.”

  “A man’s life? Christ, Rachel, hardly. He’s not in prison anymore. He’s free. I don’t know why you’re doing this.” She shoves the piece of paper back at me.

  “He’s not free. Not until he can prove he didn’t commit that crime. Look at how the town’s reacted to his return. Look at your own reaction.”

  Her eyes flicker. “That’s because of your newspaper, him naming names.”

  I lean forward. “Three men tried to kill him before he even went to the paper. They burned his place down, and I don’t believe they would have stopped there unless he had gone to the papers and spooked them. You can’t honestly think Jeb razed his own property and somehow managed to beat himself up with a tire iron? Please, tell me whose extension that is.”

  Kerrigan’s jaw tightens.

  Frustration flares in me. “Okay, can you at least let me know who was on duty the evening of April eighth?”

  “I’m not sure that’s public information.”

  “Of course it is. You work for the Snowy Cr
eek municipality. The taxpayers are your employers.”

  “Then go get it from the municipal office.”

  I stare at her.

  “Look, you chose to make yourself the enemy here, Rachel. I have enough trouble as it is bonding with the guys. I’m not going to be the one to hand this information over.”

  I drag my hand over my hair. “Okay, what about you—were you on duty the evening of April eighth?”

  She inhales deeply, holding my gaze.

  “Please.”

  She curses under her breath, grabs the firefighter calendar on her wall, unhooks it, and slaps it on her desk. She flips back to April.

  I freeze as an image catches my eye. “Wait—” I clap my hand down on her calendar. “That photo, back there, flip back a few pages.”

  Startled, she lets me take the calendar.

  I quickly flick back a few months and come to the photograph. My blood turns cold.

  A firefighter. His big muscled back to the camera, his skin oiled and gleaming, fire pants hanging below his hips, exposing the top of his buttocks. He’s working an old-style water pump, but it’s the tattoo snaking up from the exposed top of his buttocks that rivets me. A tail. A dragon’s tail. With an arrowhead shape at the tip.

  “Who is this?” I whisper.

  Kerrigan looks at me oddly. “A lot of the guys posed for that. It’s a fundraising calendar. They do it each year.”

  “That tattoo, it’s a dragon.”

  Undulating dragon. Amy watching Merilee being raped. Pumping dragon.

  “A dragon across his butt, yeah, he’s had it since school, apparently.”

  “Who has?”

  “Chief Rudiger.”

  A dull roar sounds in my brain.

  “You okay, Rachel? What is it?”

  I clear my throat. “Was . . . was Clint Rudiger at work on the evening of April eighth?” I grab the piece of paper from her desk, hold it up. “Is this his extension?”