“He’s dead, right, Dad?” said Joey.
The chief nodded.
“That’s what we thought,” Joey said. “Ingrid and me.”
The chief looked over his shoulder at Joey, a hard expression on his face, the first time Ingrid had seen it. Joey’s eyes shifted away. The chief turned back to the body, examining those three red spots in the snow. He took out his radio, started giving orders. After only a few seconds Ingrid heard a distant siren. The chief spoke into his radio.
“No damn siren.”
It went silent at once.
They all went back to staring at the body. Ingrid couldn’t help herself: You could study a dead person way more intently than a living one, or at least she could, without fear of rudeness. Was rudeness even possible with only one of you there? So Ingrid stared, and she noticed things: like the waffle soles on Harris Thatcher’s boots; the top of a spiral notebook sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans; and how his left arm was twisted underneath him in a way that would get uncomfortable after just a few seconds.
“I don’t think it’s a bike accident,” Joey said. A long pause, and then he added, “’Cause of how the bike’s over by the shed. Which is, like, pretty far from here.”
No one spoke for a moment or two. Then the chief said, “No, not a bike accident.”
That was when Ingrid saw something in Harris Thatcher’s white hair, just behind his ear, something that might have been a mud spatter. “What’s that in his hair?” she said.
“Not in his hair,” said the chief. “Under it.” A squad car appeared on 392, blue light flashing but siren off. “That’s an entry wound, Ingrid.”
“You mean…?”
“He was shot,” said the chief.
The wind stirred, not much, but enough to ruffle Harris Thatcher’s white hair, cover up the wound. That movement, the ruffling hair, somehow made Ingrid feel that all this staring was rude no matter what, and she looked away.
“When did it happen?” she said.
The chief’s heavy eyebrows rose. “That’s for the medical examiner to say,” he said. “But I’d guess three or four days ago.”
“Then—” Ingrid began, but stopped herself.
“Go on,” said the chief.
“I was just wondering when it last snowed,” Ingrid said.
“So was I,” said the chief.
“What are you guys talking about?” said Joey.
“Who cares when it snowed?”
“Well, Ingrid?” said the chief.
“If it hasn’t snowed since…since this happened, then there might be lots of clues around.”
“Like?” said Chief Strade.
“Like footprints, for one thing,” said Ingrid. “But all I see are the two snowshoe tracks, Mr. Thatcher’s steps coming from the shed, and yours, Mr. Strade.”
The chief nodded. “And the snow doesn’t look fresh to me,” he said.
“So?” said Joey.
“So he wasn’t shot from close range,” Ingrid said.
“Maybe he shot himself,” Joey said.
The chief’s eyes, small eyes but bright, swung for a moment toward Joey, seemed to soften slightly. “Can’t rule that out, son,” he said. “Not yet.”
“But?” said Ingrid.
“But it’s an unusual placement for a suicide wound,” the chief said. “Not impossible, just unusual.”
“And if it’s suicide,” said Ingrid, “where’s the gun?”
“Maybe underneath him,” Joey said.
Ingrid looked down. One gloved hand, the right, was visible; the body covered the left hand. She saw that the spiral notebook in the back pocket was open at an inside page. Bending a little she could actually read what was written on the top line: sinkhole—dynamite???
“Maybe,” the chief said. “We’ll soon find out.” More flashing blue lights appeared on 392.
A snowplow came, cleared a path all the way from the end of Grampy’s driveway to the shed. Then came a squad car with Sergeant Pina—who umped Little League games and played Santa in the Christmas parade—and some other cops. And after that another squad car, an ambulance, and the medical examiner. They got busy with yellow tape, measurements, cameras.
“You kids wait in Sergeant Pina’s car,” said the chief.
Ingrid and Joey got in the back of the cruiser. Sergeant Pina left the engine running, heat on—a good thing, since they were both shivering. Joey took an energy bar from his pocket, broke it in two, offered half to Ingrid.
“Not hungry,” she said.
Joey ate both halves. Outside, Chief Strade pulled the spiral notebook out of Harris Thatcher’s pocket, riffled through a few pages, and slipped it into a clear plastic bag. Sergeant Pina and the medical examiner—a big woman in a puffy ski jacket—turned Harris Thatcher’s body over: no gun underneath. The angle of his head, his legs, his arms, including the twisted-up one—everything stayed in the exact same position.
“He’s frozen,” Ingrid said.
Joey put his hand on hers, kept it there. After a while they stopped shivering. The chief and the medical examiner knelt over the body. The medical examiner, wearing surgical gloves, parted Harris Thatcher’s blue lips. The chief said something. The medical examiner was about to reply, but at that moment everyone stopped what they were doing and turned their heads up the hill, toward the orchard.
Ingrid followed their gaze, saw the pickup coming down the freshly plowed track, Grampy at the wheel, going fast. He stopped by the shed—very abruptly, the pickup slewing to one side—got out, and walked down to Chief Strade. Grampy wasn’t wearing a hat, gloves, or a jacket, just a white T-shirt; a white T-shirt with black dress pants and black dress shoes, which was kind of strange.
Ingrid opened the door in time to hear him say, “What’s going on here? Why are all you people on my land?”
“Mr. Hill?” said the chief. “I’m Gilbert Strade, chief of police.”
Grampy looked him in the eye. “I know who you are,” he said. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Ingrid got out of the car.
“The answer is we found a dead man on your property,” the chief said.
“Impossible,” said Grampy.
“I’m afraid not,” said the chief. “As you can see.” He raised the yellow tape. Grampy walked under. The medical examiner rose, leaving the body by itself in the snow. Grampy glanced down at it.
“Do you know this man?” said the chief.
Grampy took a second look, and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I know the son of a bitch.”
Then there was silence out in Grampy’s fields, although the wind rose a little higher, stirring the soft white hair of both of them, Grampy and the dead man.
Ingrid moved closer.
Soft white hair, and Chief Strade’s voice was soft too. “You had some problems with him?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” said Grampy. His bare arms were covered in goose bumps from the cold, but those cords of muscle, so amazing in an old man, still stood out.
“Handle in what way?” said the chief.
“That’s between me and him.”
Ingrid took one or two more steps, found she’d somehow gotten under the yellow tape and was now standing next to Grampy. He didn’t notice her.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” said the chief.
“About what?” said Grampy.
Chief Strade motioned toward the body. “About him,” he said.
“What would I want to tell you about him?” said Grampy.
“Anything that might help with the investigation,” said the chief.
Grampy got that had-it-up-to-here look on his face. “Can’t help you,” he said.
“There’s a dead man on your property,” the chief said. His voice stayed quiet but changed in a way that was hard to define, growing harder, hinting—at least to Ingrid—of something dangerous, even violent, inside. For the first time ever, she felt a little afraid of Chief Stra
de. Grampy was just being Grampy, but only Ingrid knew that. How did he appear to all these people—the chief, the medical examiner, Sergeant Pina, and the other cops? She could feel them watching him.
“I can see that,” Grampy said. “What’s he doing here in the first place?”
“I was hoping that was one of the questions you could help me with,” said the chief. He gazed directly into Grampy’s eyes.
Grampy gazed right back. “I already told you I can’t,” he said.
“The kids say you weren’t home earlier today,” the chief said. “Mind telling me where—”
“Kids?” said Grampy. “What kids?”
“Grampy,” Ingrid said, practically right beside him.
He glanced down, blinked. “Ingrid? What are you doing here?”
“We were snowshoeing on the old Indian trail,” Ingrid said. “Me and Joey.” Joey, standing by the open door of the cruiser, one foot still inside, made a little half wave that looked kind of ridiculous at a moment like this. “We found the body and went to tell you, but you weren’t home.”
“Old Indian trail,” said Grampy. “What nonsense.”
Ingrid had no idea what Grampy meant by that; all she wanted was for him to calm down a bit, but she couldn’t think of anything to say, not with everyone watching. She touched Grampy’s arm. Still goose-bumpy, but it felt surprisingly warm, even hot. He had another one of those Band-Aids on the inside of his elbow, a bigger one this time, with a blue bruise, meaning it was new.
“Mind telling me where you were, Mr. Hill?” said the chief.
“None of your business,” Grampy said.
“Grampy,” Ingrid said in a low voice, meant only for him.
He showed no sign of having heard her, but Chief Strade said, “You might want to get back in the car, Ingrid. Sergeant Pina will take you kids home.”
Get in the car? And leave Grampy alone? How could she do that?
“I…,” Ingrid began. I what? For a moment it was too much—all those uniforms, those three red holes in the snow, the body—and Ingrid almost caved, even felt her lower lip tremble. But hardly at all; no one could have seen.
“She’s my granddaughter,” Grampy said. “If there’s any driving to be done, I’ll be doing it.”
“No problem,” the chief said. “Then if you don’t mind waiting up at the house, Ingrid?” He turned to Joey. “Get in the car, Joe. And close the door.” Joey got into the car and closed the door.
“Drive him home, Chief?” said Sergeant Pina.
The chief nodded. Sergeant Pina drove the cruiser up the plowed track toward Grampy’s driveway. Ingrid could see Joey watching her through the rear window.
She turned and started up toward the house. The last thing she heard was the chief asking Grampy if he owned any firearms, and Grampy’s reply: “What I own I own by right.”
nine
INGRID STOOD IN the kitchen, waiting for Grampy. The sinkhole, depression, whatever it was, couldn’t be seen from anywhere in the farmhouse, the view blocked by the orchard and maybe too distant in any case. A black suit jacket hung over a chair by the table, also a navy-blue tie with dull gold stripes. Ingrid had never seen Grampy in a jacket and tie before. This particular tie looked nice. She went over, felt it: silk, very soft. And beside the chair stood a closed suitcase, like Grampy had just come back from a trip. Probably not an airplane trip—no baggage tag wrapped around the handle.
Kind of surprising: She didn’t remember Grampy ever going on trips. On the other hand, maybe he did. No reason she’d know—sometimes she might not see him for a week or two, or even more. So he’d come back from some trip—but not a long one, because who would take care of Piggy, last animal on the farm—come back probably tired and a little disoriented, the way you felt after a trip, only to find that whole crime-scene thing going on. Anyone might have been crabby.
So stop worrying this minute, Griddie.
She stopped worrying, or almost. Just before the complete stoppage of worry, she opened the broom closet. The broom closet was where Grampy kept his guns. The .22 rifle, which he’d taught Ingrid how to shoot—Grampy was a crack shot—stood in its place in the corner; the .357 automatic lay on the shelf. Ingrid took out the rifle, finger off the trigger, muzzle pointing straight down, and opened the bolt. The gun was unloaded. She put it back and closed the door, leaving the .357 untouched. Grampy had said she wasn’t ready for the .357. Besides, Harris Thatcher had been shot from a distance—the absence of tracks proved that, as long as there’d been no fresh snow. Distance shooting wasn’t what the .357 was for. On the other hand—uh-oh—she’d seen Grampy fire it once, last fall when a dangerous woman named Julia LeCaine had invaded his home. Worry, not quite gone, started making a comeback.
Ingrid returned to the table, touched the tie again. Maybe the biggest surprise, that Grampy would own such a fine tie. She was raising the end to check the label when the door opened and he came in.
Grampy stopped dead. “What are you doing here?”
Ingrid let go of the tie. “Just looking at your tie, Grampy. It’s nice.”
He closed the door with his heel, came to the table. “Tie?” he said. Then he noticed it. Grampy grabbed the tie, balled it up, stuffed it in the pocket of his black dress pants. “That doesn’t explain anything,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“About what you’re doing here.”
“Waiting for you to drive me home, Grampy.”
There was a pause. Grampy let out his breath, long and slow like a sigh, except there was no sound. “Right,” he said. “How old are you again?”
Ingrid laughed. That was a joke he sometimes played, forgetting her age. “Thirteen,” she said.
Grampy nodded, still poker-faced. “Too young to drive in this Godforsaken state,” he said. “Let’s get going.”
“What do you mean, ‘Godforsaken state’?” Ingrid said.
“Look around,” Grampy said.
They went out, got in the pickup. Had he really forgotten her age this time? “Are you okay, Grampy?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” said Grampy.
He drove down the driveway, onto the road, toward town. Snow started falling, a few flakes at first, then more. “What did the chief say, Grampy?”
“Nothing important,” said Grampy. “Damn nuisance.”
He didn’t speak the rest of the way. When they were almost home, Ingrid tried, “I hear you’re going to do an interview with Mr. Samuels.” Grampy just grunted.
Ingrid tossed and turned.
“Never seen woods like these,” said Grampy.
Neither had Ingrid: trees hundreds of feet tall, packed closely together, darkness everywhere, as though an enormous black umbrella hung overhead. But everything would be all right. Grampy had the .22 in one hand and the .357 in the other.
“We’ll be all right,” Ingrid said. “You’ve got the guns.”
“Ammo’s no good,” said Grampy. “Warranty’s up a long time ago.”
“We’ve got no ammo?” Ingrid said.
Grampy said, “I’m scared.”
“But what about the Medal of Honor, Grampy?”
No answer. The trees closed in.
Ingrid awoke in a sweat. She reached for Mister Happy; gone, of course, gnawed to nothing by Nigel.
“Nigel?”
She switched on the bedside light. No Nigel.
“Nigel?”
Then from out in the hall came a slurping sound. She got up, went into the bathroom, found Nigel drinking from the toilet.
“Nigel!”
He raised his head, snout dripping, glanced over at her, and went back to what he was doing, stubby tail wagging. Ingrid turned on the tap, poured a glass of water, drank it down. She saw herself in the mirror: dark shadows under her eyes, damp twists of hair stuck to her forehead. She looked like an actress made up to play a haunted version of her.
Nigel stopped drinking, sidled over, leaned against her leg. Maybe it made no
sense, but she felt a little better.
Ingrid started back toward her bedroom. In the hall she heard voices from Mom and Dad’s bedroom.
Mom said, “What do you think happened?”
Dad said, “Hell if I know.”
Mom said, “What should we do?”
Dad said, “I don’t have all the answers.”
Mom said, “I know, Mark. I just—”
Dad said, “I’m tired. I need my sleep.”
After that, silence. Ingrid went back to bed. There was a dream she could sometimes make happen: Griddie on a snug and unsinkable boat in a wild ocean storm. She tried it now, picturing herself in a cozy bunk belowdecks. It worked. She fell into a deep sleep, the wind rising around her.
Mom and Ty were already gone when Ingrid came downstairs Monday morning. Mom had to go right by Echo Falls High on the way to the Riverbend office, so Ty got a ride every day. Ingrid took the bus.
Dad was usually at the kitchen table, in one of his beautiful suits, drinking coffee and reading The Wall Street Journal, but not today. She heard TV voices, followed them into the living room. Mom didn’t like having a TV in the living room, so they’d compromised with a very small TV on rollers kept behind a big plant unless someone—meaning Dad—was watching.
He was watching now, on his feet, just a few feet from the screen. And on the screen? An overhead shot, maybe taken from a helicopter, of a barn, orchard, snowy fields, yellow tape: Grampy’s farm. “…awaiting the results of ballistics tests,” an announcer was saying. “According to Echo Falls police chief Herman Strade, there are no suspects at this time. Back to you, Rita.”
Dad switched it off, turned, and saw Ingrid.
“His name’s not Herman,” she said.
“They get everything wrong,” he said. “The more you—”
The doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” Dad said. He checked his watch.
“Want me to answer it?” said Ingrid.
“I’ll get it,” Dad said.
She followed him into the front hall. Dad opened the door. Chief Strade stood outside. He took off his chief’s hat with the gold braid. “Good morning, Mark,” he said.
Into the Dark Page 6
