Darkness the Color of Snow (21 page)

It's anchored by a cross of one-­by-­two pine: Rest in Peace, Matt. There's the usual array of cut flowers wrapped in cellophane, Mylar balloons tied to the cross with fading ribbons, burned-­down candles in glass containers, and several chrysanthemum plants, already frozen in their plastic pots. A worn Red Sox cap is wired to the top of the cross.

Scattered among the flowers and candles are photos of Matt Laferiere and letters, handwritten and inserted into plastic sleeves. He picks up one of the letters.

“Matt, you were a good kid, and you could always make me laugh. I will never forget you. Ever. Stacy.” He tries to remember who Stacy might be, but he can't. There are a ­couple of cans of Natty Light, unopened, and one empty. Did someone place the empty beer can there, or did some other visitor open and drink it? Both seem, somehow, appropriate.

There are photographs, some in plastic, some already sodden with rain and snow. Matt sitting on the hood of the Cherokee, Matt with Paul and Bobby, Matt as a kid. Maybe junior high. But in the middle of all of them, a framed eight-­by-­ten photo of Matt in a tuxedo, his arm around Nessa. A prom picture. He picks it up. Matt looks completely out of place in a gray tuxedo that looks tight on him. His hair is too long and he has a goofy grin. Nessa is in a high-­cut shiny green dress. Her hair is up, and there is a corsage on her wrist. She looks twenty-­five, but she must have been only seventeen or eighteen when this was taken. Did someone bring it from Matt's house, or did Nessa leave it? The picture shocks him as if he had never seen Matt and Nessa together. He places it back where it was.

Who put this here? There is only one obvious answer. Nessa. No one else would have a framed prom picture of the two of them. Only Nessa. He picks the photo up again. She hasn't had time to see him except that once. But she has found time to come to this site and leave the photo. It is, he guesses, her way of saying good-­bye. He starts to put it back again, but pulls it back. He studies the way Matt's arm is around Nessa. It's casual and relaxed, as though that was where it was supposed to be.

He has taken Nessa from Matt but, he realizes, not entirely. The photo must be four years old, maybe five. But there is an immediacy to it that bothers him, as if it shows that Matt never has, never will let go of her. Or she of him. The look on her face is one he hasn't seen before. It's a look of complete and utter happiness. He stands up and, underhanded, spins it back into the woods as if it were a Frisbee.

H
E WALKS INTO
the gym and through the weight room to get to the locker room. The weight room is just about empty except for the guy in the squat rack, exhaling hard with every rep, squatting a bar stacked with fifty-­pound plates. He knows who it is. The guy is a monster who spends most of his free time lifting. The guy is six four, six five, absolutely ripped, strutting around the weight room in shorts and a sleeveless T-­shirt that shows off his massive arms.

Ronny changes into his workout clothes and walks back into the gym. The big guy is done with the squat cage and moves over to the bench. He begins unloading the bar in the cage and begins stacking the plates onto the bar on the bench. Ronny guesses 240 pounds. The guy rips off a quick five reps and then racks the bar.

“You done with that?” he asks.

“For a bit. You want it? You want me to strip the bar for you?”

“I'll take off a ­couple of plates. It's OK.”

“It's a lot of weight.”

“I know. I'll take some off.”

Ronny's not the skinny kid he was a few years ago, but he's not a big-­time lifter, either. He strips off fifty pounds, then gets down on the bench. He gets his hands on the bar, feet flat on the floor, and starts to push the bar up. It's almost two hundred pounds, more than he's ever used before. He gets one rep down and up, goes for another, struggles and gets his arms fully extended. One more, he tells himself. One more.

He gets the bar down, slowly, until it just contacts his chest. He pushes it up a third of the way, struggles, pushes harder and gets it up about halfway. But the bar is starting to jiggle as his arms twitch with fatigue. He tries to go up, but the bar pushes his arms down and the weight comes slowly to his chest. He adjusts his feet on the floor and tries again to push it up. He can get it up a ­couple of inches but no more.

Defeated, he says, “A little help.”

But the big guy isn't there. He lets the bar back down until he's supporting it with his arms and chest. “A little help,” he repeats. His arms are shaking and he's taking more of the weight on his chest.

“I got you,” someone says. “Come on up. I got it.”

He's still struggling, but the bar is coming up. He sees someone above him, pulling, and he struggles with the bar, and then the weight slips back and settles onto the rack. He lets go of the bar and slides out from under it. “Thanks,” he says.

“No problem, man. You should have a spotter with that much weight on.”

He sits up. It's not the big guy, but it's a face he recognizes but can't place.

“I thought I did.”

“You mean that guy?” His savior nods with his head. “He doesn't care about you. Or me. Or anyone but him.” He leans into Ronny. “His biggest muscle is in his head. Jim Purcell. We were in the academy together.”

“Oh, right. Right. Well, I'm glad you came along. Ronny Forbert.”

“Yeah. I remember you. Day off?”

“Yeah. I'm working in Lydell.”

“No shit. Big fucking mess over there, right? I mean that guy getting hit by the car.”

“Yeah. Big fucking mess.”

“You're not the cop in that, are you?”

“Afraid so.”

“What did they do? Suspend you?”

“A few days. Didn't call for backup.”

“That's not so bad. Glad you're OK. You want another crack at that press? Maybe a few less pounds. I'll spot you.”

“No. I think I'm done with this.”

“OK. What is it over in Lydell? A lot of politics?”

“Lots of politics. My chief is standing by me, though. It's going to be OK.”

“That's good,” Purcell says. “You got a good chief, you're all right.”

“Gordy Hawkins. He's the best.”

Purcell extends his hands. Thumbs up. “So many of these police chiefs are so afraid of losing their jobs, they just cover their own asses. Mine's pretty cool. Seifert over in Glendale. But no one told us how fucking political this job is, did they? Or did I sleep through that?”

The big guy comes back. “You going to use that?”

Ronny gets up and waves to the bench rack. “All yours.”

The big guy grunts and goes over to the racked plates, pulls off two twenty-­five-­pound plates, and slides them onto the bar next to Ronny's weights.

“Where are you in your workout?” Purcell asks. “You just starting?”

“Maybe I'm done. I don't know.”

“Got a minute? I have something I want to show you.”

Purcell turns and goes toward the locker room. Ronny follows. Behind them they can hear the big guy grunting as he starts moving the weights.

In the locker room, Purcell goes to his locker and unlocks it. “I was thinking about going over to the range. Want to shoot some?”

“I was just going to work out. I didn't bring my weapon.”

“This is your lucky day. I got you covered. Come on. Let's get dressed and head for the range. I got an extra in my car.”

Ronny walks over to the range, checks in. Purcell comes back with a holstered Glock and an aluminum case. He puts the case up on the shelf and starts to unlatch it. “This is what I wanted to show you. You're going to like this.”

When the case is open, Ronny looks in. “Wow.”

“ ‘Wow' is right, my man. Desert Eagle Mark VII, .357 Magnum, automatic, laser sight. Pick it up, man.”

“Three fifty-­seven auto?”

“A piece of work, man. The gun Dirty Harry wishes he had. Let's load it up and you can see for yourself what it can do.”

It's the biggest gun Ronny has ever held. He's seen pictures of it, but never actually put one in his hand. Purcell hands him glasses and hearing protectors. “You're going to need these.”

Ronny has a little trouble holding the gun steady, its weight fighting him as he brings it into firing position. He bangs off two shots. “Jeez.”

“Hell of a weapon, isn't it? Here.” Purcell takes the gun and switches on the laser sight. “Now give it a try.”

A bright red spot appears on the target. Ronny pulls the trigger. A hole appears right under where the red spot was.

“It takes a little getting used to, especially if you've been using one of these.” Purcell takes out his Glock. “But once you get the feel for it, you're going to love it.”

Ronny fires two more rounds. “I pretty much love it now.”

Purcell has a big grin on his face. “I knew you would. It's for sale.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. Breaks my heart. I love that thing. The power is awesome. But Christmas is coming up, and I need some bucks. I'll sell it cheap.”

“Oh. I don't know. I'm kind of strapped right now. Suspension without pay.”

“Fifteen hundred bucks. You can search high and low, and you'll never find a deal like that. Laser sight goes, too. And I'll throw in the case. You just can't beat a deal like that.”

“I like it. But like I said. I'm strapped.”

“Me, too. You got kids? I do. I got to buy Christmas presents. I wouldn't give this up if it wasn't for that. I love this thing.”

Ronny looks at the gun. Desert Eagle Mark VII. He wants it. But he has Christmas presents to buy, too. Or at least one. He hasn't found anything for Nessa yet. He's thinking jewelry, but he knows nothing about jewelry. Only that it's expensive. “It's a good price, man. I know that. Just not sure I can swing it. Fifteen hundred.”

“I can't let it go for less. That's way under what I paid for it.”

“It's a great deal.”

“Can you put something down and make payments? I'll trust you. One cop to another. A Christmas present, for yourself. Where you going to get another for that?”

Ronny does some quick calculations. He'll be back to work next week. Maybe he can get an advance or a loan from someone. And he still needs to buy something nice for Nessa. Other than that, he's in the clear. The gun has an emotional pull on him that seems stronger, more urgent than even the desire he felt when he went to get his truck. “I got eight hundred. I can get you the rest in a week or so.”

“Eight hundred would help me out a lot. I don't want to have to go back to the gym and try to sell it to the ape there.” Purcell extends his hand.

Ronny shakes Purcell's hand. He can't afford this, but he really wants it, and Purcell has a point. He'll never get another chance at one this cheap. “We'll have to go to the ATM.”

“I got the time, if you've got the money, honey.”

At the ATM, Ronny taps in a withdrawal of eight hundred dollars. The machine whirs and clicks, then reads Withdrawal Limit Exceeded. He goes back to Purcell, who's waiting in his car. “The ATM won't let me take out eight hundred.”

“Do you have that much in your account?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure.”

“We can go to the bank. They'll let you withdraw it inside.”

So they drive another two miles, and Ronny goes inside the bank and fills out a withdrawal slip. Eight hundred dollars. The teller takes the slip, checks his ID, and begins to count out eight hundred-­dollar bills. He takes the bills and looks at his receipt. He's got about $170 left in his account. He can buy Nessa something with the card. When Purcell drives off, Ronny takes the gun back to his truck and puts it on the passenger's seat. Halfway home, he puts his hand on the aluminum case and leaves it there, driving one-­handed.

A
FEW MONTHS
after he had started hanging with the Lafe­riere bunch, because it was Matt's group, no question about that, Bobby stopped him in the hall. “Don't be late today, dude. We got some major shit. This is going to be one major day.”

He got out to the Cherokee after his last class. Laferiere and Cabella were already there. Stablein hadn't showed yet. “You like guns, dude?” Cabella asked.

“Yeah, I guess. I don't have one.”

“Show him, Matt.”

“Not yet. Wait until we get out of here.”

When Stablein showed up, they all got into the Cherokee, pulled out of the school parking lot, and headed north, up into the big woods. “Now?” Cabella asked. “Can I show him now?”

Stablein passed a bundle in folded cloth. Cabella carefully unfolded the cloth. There were two guns, a revolver and an automatic. “What do you think of this?”

“Very cool.”

“And ammo. We have plenty of ammo.” Stablein held up two boxes of bullets.

“Can I touch them?”

“Hell, yes, dude. We're going to do some damage with these.”

Ronny picked up the revolver, blued steel with walnut grips. He was surprised by the weight of the thing.

“We got a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum here and a genuine, I mean genuine, Colt .45 1911 model. One's my dad's, the Colt was my grandfather's. It was in World War One.”

“Your dad lets you use these?”

“He doesn't know. I take them every once in a while. He doesn't even know that I know where he keeps them.”

“They're beautiful,” Ronny said.

“You better believe that.”

He had never held a gun before, a real gun. It was heavier than he had expected, but it felt wonderful in his hand, the heft, the wood of the grips.

“That's not loaded,” Bobby said. “But it's a good idea to check it. Always check a gun before you handle it.”

“How do I do that?”

Bobby took the gun from him, unlocked the cylinder, and flicked his wrist to open it. There were six clean holes in the cylinder waiting to be filled with bullets. He handed the gun back to Ronny. He clicked the safety on. “Don't dry-­fire it. It's bad for it.”