Paul Doiron - Bad Little Falls

Immediately, a dog began barking. It sounded big; it sounded mean. I dropped my hand to my canister of Cap-Stun pepper spray, but no hellhound came charging out of the shadows. The dog was locked inside the house. And the windows remained dark.

I stopped at the side door and rapped my knuckles hard against the aluminum. I heard the clawing of the dog as it came racing down the hall and heard its heavy body collide against the locked door. It leapt up at the window, snapping its jaws and growling. I couldn’t see what breed it was, but I was glad there was a barrier of wood and metal between its fangs and my face.

No lights, no answer.

I stepped away from the door and circled around behind the building.

The snowmobile was parked behind the woodpile. McQuarrie had been right. It was a goblin-green Arctic Cat ProCross turbo: a racing sled, the speed demon’s choice. The very machine I’d seen coming straight at my grille the night of the blizzard.

I dug my camera out of my jacket pocket and took a picture. The flash created a burst of light, like an exploding firecracker. I snapped a shot from every angle. I wanted Doc Larrabee to remember this snowmobile. I wanted to convince the state police to bring Mitch Munro in for questioning. I wanted that son of a bitch out of Jamie Sewall’s life forever.

I wanted her to myself.

In my mind, I began preparing my bullshit story: No, Detective, I had no intention of meddling in the official investigation. I simply went to Township Nineteen to clear up some personal loose ends about the night of the blizzard. It was only after I positively identified Mitch Munro’s Arctic Cat ProCross turbo that it occurred to me he’d had the means, motive, and opportunity to kill Randall Cates… No, sir, I’m not putting forth my own theory. I just wanted to provide you with information in case you chose to follow up.

Given my reputation, would anyone believe this line of crap? It would definitely help to have Doc Larrabee corroborate that the snowmobile we’d seen belonged to Munro. I decided to stop at his farmhouse and show him the photographs and then tell Zanadakis what I’d happened to find.

Night hadn’t yet fallen, but as I pulled into Doc’s driveway, I was startled to find lights burning in almost every window. You might have thought he was having another party.

Doc took his time answering the door, and even then he felt compelled to peel back the curtain in the window to get a good look at me. His Amish beard was poorly trimmed, and he looked as baggy-eyed as an insomniac. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d be lying if I said it was a social call. Can I come in? I want to show you something.”

He squinted over my shoulder into the gloom with what seemed like real nervousness. “What is it?”

I tried to put him at ease with a smile. “Some photos.”

“Does this have something to do with Prester Sewall? I heard he killed himself today.”

Despite my best efforts, Doc seemed intent on having this conversation on his freezing doorstep. “This morning, a plow truck hit a school bus, and a bunch of kids went to the hospital with minor injuries. During the confusion, Prester slipped out of the ambulance bay and took off into the woods. The police tracked him to the river. He tried to cross on the ice but went through and was swept under by the current. I’m sorry, Doc. You worked so hard to save his life.”

“So it was definitely suicide?”

I pictured Corbett standing on the riverbank, staring down at the hole in the ice. “I think it’s premature to conclude anything one way or another.”

“No one helped him to escape?”

“What do you mean?”

“I wondered if he’d had any visitors at the hospital.”

“Just his sister and me.”

“ You visited him?”

I nodded and rubbed my hands together. “You don’t have any coffee, do you? It’s kind of chilly out here.”

Doc took hold of the doorknob again, blocking my way. It was as if the jovial, wisecracking guy who had accompanied me to Brogan’s ranch had been replaced with some sort of pod person. “You’d better not come in. I’ve been sick with the flu.”

He certainly looked ill, but unless he was treating himself with Maker’s Mark, I would have suspected first that he was intoxicated. I reached into my pocket for the digital camera. “Do you remember on the night of the blizzard how a crazy snowmobiler almost rammed my Jeep as we were driving down to the Sprague house? I think I’ve found out who it was, and I’m hoping you might recognize the sled.”

“What does it matter now?” he asked in a scratchy voice. “If Prester murdered Cates and then killed himself, isn’t that the end of the investigation?”

“I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends.”

“The state police were clear about my not discussing that night with anyone, especially you.”

I turned on the camera, and the picture of Munro’s sled showed on the stamp-size screen. “Come on, Doc. Do me a favor. You won’t get in trouble. Just tell me if this is the snowmobile you saw on the Bog Road.”

His watery eyes remained focused on mine. “Whose sled is it?”

“I don’t want to prejudice you.”

His gaze darted to the screen. “Sorry.”

“What about these?” I clicked through the series of pictures I had taken.

“No.”

I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice. “You’re positive?”

“I don’t understand why this is important. Are you planning on charging the driver with reckless driving or something?”

“It would help if you would corroborate that this was the sled that almost hit us.”

“I’m sorry, Mike.” His voice softened and he seemed genuinely apologetic, more like the kindly old man who’d invited me to dinner. “My eyes aren’t any good anymore.”

“OK. Thanks.”

He called after me, “So what will happen now?”

I stopped short. “With what?”

“With the murder investigation?”

“I guess it depends how interested the investigators are in what I have to show them.”

A gust kicked up, and he shivered noticeably. “You’re not going to tell me whose sled that is?”

“As you said, I’m not sure it matters. Have a good evening, Doc. Sorry to disturb you.”

He smiled sadly and seemed to be on the verge of offering a comment, but he caught himself and closed the door. As the porch light was snuffed out, I found myself again in the dark. Everyone I had met in recent weeks seemed to be a cipher, and I didn’t know whether it was a characteristic of the people of Washington County or a reflection of my woeful inability to see clearly into the heart of another human being.

I decided to e-mail the photos of Munro’s Arctic Cat to Detective Lieutenant Zanadakis and Sheriff Rhine and leave it to them to follow up with me. Under most circumstances, the word of a game warden testifying that he recognized a vehicle was good enough for investigators to pursue, but my history of making imaginative leaps-as the sheriff might say-combined with my ill-considered sexual involvement with Jamie Sewall was likely to weigh against my credibility.

Some days-most days-I wondered whether I was really cut out for my job.

I suspected my superiors thought the same thing.

The wet snow had whitewashed all the fixtures in my dooryard: my ATV beneath its tarp, my Ski-Doo on its trailer, my overturned canoe, my rusting Jeep. I made a quick sweep around the property, looking for new tire tracks or footprints. There were none.

A sour smell greeted me as I opened the door. The odor was definitely fainter than it had been, and masked somewhat by the chemical freshness of the industrial cleaners I had used on the carpets and walls, but the place still reeked to high heaven. I dragged my duffel bag inside and flung it on the floor. I would just need to resign myself to smelling like roadkill for the indefinite future. It seemed to be a message from the universe that I was truly meant to live alone.